If You Love Me, Let Me Know
by SuperWhoLockness
Summary: John sees the good and the bad in Sherlock Holmes, and he loves both. He can see the pain in his friend's eyes when no one else can. That's why he needs Sherlock to see how much he cares for him when they stumble upon a case that could threaten both their friendship and their lives.
1. The Name Game

**A/N:** **So this is my first Sherlock fanfic ever (so please be kind to me!). It will lean towards the JohnLock ship so all aboard!**

**Please review, as reviews are what puzzles are to Sherlock, and they get my adrenaline pumping so I can write more. Feel free to shoot any suggestions or ideas my way and I might use them in this story or future stories! **

**I only own the plot because if I owned the characters, they'd be in a lot of trouble. Since it's JohnLock it's most likely to be a bit OOC but I tried to stick close to their personalities as I could.**

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Chapter One: The Name Game

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John watched with an aching in his heart as his best friend lay on the black leather couch, on his back, silently smoking a cigarette. He knew these bouts Sherlock got stuck in; it usually presented itself in times of nonexistent cases or even just out of the blue for no apparent reason at all. Either way, it still hurt John Watson to see his friend in such a bleak state. He had gotten up with Sherlock when he couldn't fall asleep because his mind had been working in other ways, unhealthy ways.

He watched as the dancing waves of cigarette smoke swirled upwards into the air above Sherlock, who occasionally closed his eyes. Even this man who seemed so incapable of any feelings whatsoever sometimes managed to even let a few stray tears escape his grey tinted eyes. This only occurred on unusually bad nights, however, and Sherlock Holmes tried so hard to hide this evidence of his depression but it was no secret to John.

"Do you have any idea how oblivious the human race is to our eventual demise?"

He hadn't said a word in nearly five hours as he only let the ashtray fill up with his dead cigarette butts. John had started to think his friend had fallen asleep, after catching him yawning a few times. The unexpected question took John back and he took the time to take a small sip from his tea and looked up from his book. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock took another drag from his cigarette that rested comfortably between his long, thin fingers. "We're made of stardust. That's what we were created from… and we live, and sleep, eat, drink, fornicate… only to go back up to the stars one day, and every single person just takes it for granted."

John knew where this was heading. It had been an unexpected question at first but it was usually the one thing he talked about during these spells. He chewed anxiously on his lower lip. He knew in his heart he should be grateful that his friend hadn't chosen to resort to the more serious means that he usually turned to when he grew bored or grief-stricken. Then again, chain smoking wasn't good for him either.

"I don't believe that's true. I don't think every single person takes their limited life for granted. Even if they do take it for granted, that's not to say that they're oblivious they're going to die one day. What if they believe that they're living their life to its fullest, having fun before their time is done?" John suggested, turning his full attention to his friend.

Sherlock cast a glance over to him before he looked back up towards the ceiling. He became quiet for a few minutes, as if he was absorbing the words John had said to him. "Those are some pretty extravagant thoughts for a hypocrite."

"Hypocrite? I'm sorry, Sherlock, you're the person who's always complaining when people lose loved ones and then _they're_ the ones who wonder what it all means! You're just as bad as them…"

Sherlock Holmes either didn't hear the second part of John's sentence or he was choosing to ignore it. Most likely, it was the latter.

"Yes, hypocrite, John. You're not living your life to its fullest! You've shut yourself up in here with me and you barely go out unless there's a case…"

John chuckled in disbelief and shook his head, already becoming frustrated with this man. "Forgive me for coming back from a violent and bloody war with post-traumatic stress disorder! It's rather difficult to live any life when I have flashbacks and nightmares of all my friends dying around me. Anyway, you're the pot calling the kettle black, Sherlock! It's _you_ who's not living his life to the fullest, besides purposely pissing off Anderson and Greg – "

"Who?" Sherlock asked, looking back over at John with furrowed eyebrows.

John wanted to stand up and go over to Sherlock to hit him with his book but instead, stayed put in his chair. He leaned forward though with his mouth agape at Sherlock. "Lestrade! You know, the guy who always asks for your help with difficult cases! I can't believe you don't even know what him by his first name. Anyway, besides your continuing habit of making them both angry, I wouldn't say that you're putting yourself out there to live any real life."

Sherlock sighed inwardly before he took another drag of the slowly deteriorating cigarette. "You know I live my life for exciting cases, John. Those are what gets my blood pumping, as well as yours."

"Yes, I'll admit that it does, but look at yourself when there are no cases! You shut yourself up in this room, chain smoke or worse. You shoot toxins into your body, hoping for something that will make your brain work like it does during the cases. That's not healthy, Sherlock! You need a new hobby," John attempted to reason with him.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he exhaled. "I have plenty of hobbies," he mumbled almost too softly. He remained quiet for several minutes before John watched him suddenly sit up and then bounce onto his feet quickly. "Right then! I'm off…"

He straightened up in surprise and looked up at his friend. "Off where? We were having a discussion, and you were feeling low…"

Sherlock fixed his button down shirt and tucked it elegantly into his black dress pants, having taken the fabric out after about an hour and a half of lying on the couch in his depressed state. "Well, I'm all better now. I figured I'd go talk to George – "

"Greg," John corrected automatically with exasperation.

" – and see if they have any cases they need help with," Sherlock continued without missing a beat. He began to put on his long, heavy black coat with his dark blue scarf.

John closed his book, set his tea down, and made a beeline for his own coat. He didn't truly believe Sherlock's episode of depression was over but he also couldn't let Sherlock go out of the building with a clear conscious. He knew his friend usually thought logically about things but he was weary of what Sherlock might do if left alone. "I'll come with. I could do with some excitement as well anyway."

"Really, John, you don't need to baby-sit me like Mycroft. I'm going to just pop over to the pastry shop around the corner to talk to Grant – "

"GREG!" John interjected. "And I'd just rather come with you is all. If something occurs, I've… got your back, sort to speak…"

Sherlock thought about this a minute and then almost smirked. "Well, come along then, John."

As the two friends exited 221B, they began to make their way towards the pastry shop that was about seven minutes away. The two didn't say a word to each other until they were less than a minute away and then John turned to Sherlock.

"Wait a minute, how do you know Greg's even going to be in here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if the answer was too obvious. "John, really now… I believe you're slipping. We haven't done a case in so long, you've appeared to have lost your edge! It's Thursday late morning. Lestrade doesn't actually go into work until about 11:30, and it's –" Sherlock looked at his watch on his wrist. "11:05. So let's go talk to him, shall we?"

John couldn't deny his friend's extensive knowledge down to the last second. It certainly hadn't come with being close to Greg Lestrade, since Sherlock wasn't ever close to anyone. Sure enough, as they both walked inside the cozy coffee shop, they saw Lestrade sitting at a table, sipping his coffee and glancing up at the news on the television.

"Gareth -"

"Greg," Lestrade calmly corrected the consulting detective, although he had a slight edge to his voice.

"Right, Gregory. I see you're not doing anything particularly important at the moment. Might if we have a seat?" Sherlock asked before pulling out a chair and sitting down across from him.

John cleared his throat and inched his way to the chair between both men and slowly sat down. Lestrade made no attempt to stop them but he could see the irritation already forming in his eyes. Sherlock was the bane of his existence, John knew, but he didn't take it too personally since Sherlock Holmes was the bane of everyone's existence anyway.

Sherlock looked unusually antsy but John didn't miss his friend's eyes as they scrutinized every bit of Greg Lestrade, as if he was trying to pick out any flaws or anything out of the ordinary. Sure enough, he found something. "Looking a bit scruffy, aren't we, Lestrade? Hmm, your shirt's wrinkled and you missed a button… might you have slept over at someone's house recently?"

John glanced over at Greg for confirmation. The Detective Inspector groaned as he fiddled with one of the buttons on his shirt he had forgotten to button and then looked over at Sherlock. "No, Sherlock. Pardon me, I didn't shave or iron my shirt because I simply didn't have the time, and I was in a hurry, hence the missing button. Not everyone applies to your deduction of things. You're not always right, you know!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked. "I can be, and am always right though. You didn't have time to shave or iron your shirt but yet you had time to come here to sit and have a coffee before work? Shaving takes about three minutes and ironing a button down shirt like that takes about fifteen seconds but driving to a coffee shop before work, that you live right around the corner from takes about five minutes -"

"Oh for bloody Christ's sake, I enjoy my leisure time, Sherlock! So sue me… what are you two doing here anyway?"

John couldn't stop himself from grinning at Greg's impatience with his friend but quickly formed it into a casual smile to answer before Sherlock could anger him any further. "Sherlock's got cabin fever and needs a case."

Greg looked from John over to Sherlock. "A case? Have you tried looking at yourself, you bleeding nut case?"

Sherlock sighed and then looked at the Inspector once again. "Oh please, Lestrade, I'm way too boring. Give me a case, any case! Just not a boring case…"

John searched his friend's face and knew that Sherlock never purposely set out to be entertaining or amusing but it simply just happened sometimes. A part of him wished that Sherlock had the normal human personality that tried to make jokes instead of always be serious but that's just how he was; he was always serious because he believed that the world was nothing to joke about, that because one day they'd be stardust back up into the sky, there was no point in making silly jokes.

"Do you mind, Sherlock? I only have…" Greg looked at his wrist before sighing and taking another drink from his coffee cup. "Fifteen minutes to enjoy myself. You look like death warmed over; why don't you grab some coffee?"

"Actually, I do mind! I'm going out of my mind because I mind so much! And I don't want any coffee! Just give me a bloody case or I swear, I will ingest all the cocaine in the world and shoot all the morphine that exists in this country into my veins!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, nearly causing me to jump.

Greg looked at Sherlock as if he had grown a second head off his shoulders and suddenly grabbed his briefcase before setting it on the table and opening it. John and Sherlock both watched in curiosity as Lestrade pulled out a file and threw the manila folder at Sherlock who caught it and eagerly opened it. He scanned the file quickly, far more quickly than John ever could've, but then again, his friend's brain worked a second a minute instead of a mile.

"Oh come on, Lestrade! Really?" Sherlock moaned in disappointment.

"What do you mean, 'really'? You wanted a case, I gave you a case!" Lestrade exclaimed, giving Sherlock a bewildered look.

"Well, my apologies, then. I should've been more specific! I want a better case, a good case!"

John looked at Greg who tongued his cheek. "I'll make you a deal, Sherlock. I'll give you a better case if you can tell me the final solution to that case," he bargained before smirking.

Sherlock sighed and threw the file back in front of Greg. "Alright then. The manager of the company embezzled the five hundred thousand pounds to pay for his overseas gambling debt. His wife found out he was in debt, threatened to leave him, and the manager shot his wife. He panicked, thinking he'd be found out again, and disposed of her body but was seen by someone nearby, and someone who knew him. Possibly a good friend or maybe even a relative. This person blackmailed him until he became under so much pressure that he finally snapped, and put the gun to his head. Before he did this though, he wanted it to look like he had been murdered by his friend or relative but he didn't think about the angle in his distressed state. He shot from the side instead of the mouth or the back of the head, which would've been the angle of a murder. The blackmailer didn't have any photographic or physical evidence of his wife's murder so he received no jail time for the actual offense of blackmailing, however, police for one reason or another did some shoddy police work and it appears that he'd be accused of murder until you threw this file at me. He shouldn't receive any jail time except for the blackmailing since the manager committed suicide, which he most likely wouldn't serve any more than eleven years for."

John and Greg both stared at him in a combination of shock and awe, Sherlock's talents never ceasing to amaze them. Greg quickly recovered though and then looked defeated. "Well done, Sherlock… are you satisfied with yourself then, showing me up?"

"Incredibly, the file now, as you promised," Sherlock insisted, holding out his hand.

John smiled at looked over at his friend as Greg perused through his briefcase one case for another case. "How did that feel?"

Sherlock glanced at John and smiled back. "Wonderful, John. I can only hope for a slightly tougher case this time, though."

Greg scowled at him before he threw the second manila folder at him and then glanced at his watch before he stood up, throwing his coffee cup away. "Have fun with this one, Sherlock Holmes. I doubt you're going to be bored again anytime soon."

John watched him turn and leave the coffee shop before he looked down at the folder. "What does it say?"

Sherlock closed it and then stood up, looking too secretive for John's liking. "Not here, John. Let's go back home and look at it."

John couldn't help but smirk at the expression on his friend's face. "It must be a good one. You're looking like the cat that swallowed the canary…"

"_Not_. _Here_. Let's go," Sherlock spoke firmly, lowering his voice before motioning towards the door with his neck.

John stood up and followed Sherlock out. He could feel his adrenaline pumping with excitement as they made their way back towards the apartment and up the stairs. John closed the door before he glimpsed over at Sherlock. "Tea?"

His friend gave him an almost insulted look. "Tea, at a time like this? Go ahead and make yourself a cuppa. I don't have time for tea, John. I have a case to solve."

John nodded, unable to help but feel a bit hurt at the lack of companionship of their crime solving team. "Right, of course you do. Tell me the details from in there. I can hear you…"

John walked into the kitchen part and put the kettle on before he reached up into the cupboard and grabbed a mug, listening for Sherlock's voice. When he didn't hear anything for several moments, he decided to break the silence. "You know, I wish one day you'd be able to say 'we,' instead of 'I.'" I know that you're used to being alone in your ventures but you can't deny that I help you in some way, no matter how minuscule it might seem to you. It'd just be nice if you could give me a bit of the credit as well!"

He dumped a Tetley teabag into the mug before he rested his back up against the counter. John didn't know why, but guilt suddenly flooded him. "I'm not saying to give me all the credit, Sherlock… I know a lot of the solving is your doing. You and your… mind palace. You really are the smartest of us both, I'd be thick to think otherwise. You know how smart you are… you're absolutely brilliant. I just sometimes think that I'm your tag-along, second wheel. I just feel… maybe that, sometimes I'm useless, and I know sometimes you think I am too… but I guess, where I'm getting at is…"

"Oh for God's sake, John Watson! You're not bloody useless! If you were, we wouldn't be living together and I sure as hell wouldn't be bringing you on my cases with me!" Sherlock yelled from the living area.

John smiled to himself now, taking it as a high compliment that Sherlock Holmes said he wasn't useless. He poured the hot water over his tea bag and let it steep for a few minutes before he walked back into the living room, taking the file from Sherlock, who no doubt had memorized it in the six minutes John had been in the kitchen making tea.

"Go ahead and look at it, John. Start shooting me suggestions once you've read it over," Sherlock replied, yawning as he lit a cigarette.

John sat down and gave him a disapproving look. "Really? You've got a case now! You don't need to smoke, Sherlock."

He lay back down on his back like he had been earlier and took a long drag of the new cigarette before he waved me off. "It helps me to relax and think, John. Just read the case file."

John turned his attention back to the file. He rubbed his eyes tiredly but forced them to refocus.

_Name of Victim(s): Amelia & Joseph Hutchinson_

_Cause of Death: Joseph H. – Poison_

_Amelia M. – Unknown_

_Time of Death(s): Joseph H. – November 30th of this year at 10:26pm_

_Amelia M. – November 30th of this year at 10:29pm_

_Address: 91 Lollard Street, London_

John looked over the rest of the details of the file, this task taking a good several minutes and already felt frustrated. There were so many questions he had that seemed small and insignificant but he decided to ask anyway. "This doesn't make sense, which is why I can see why you were happy with this one… but why does it say 'Amelia and Joseph Hutchinson' in the first line, but then gives different initials for each of them in the second? I mean, just because they're dead, is that supposed to signify they aren't married anymore? That's a pretty sick joke if you ask me. Sherlock?"

John looked over to see his friend had fallen asleep finally, his arm hanging off the couch with the half smoked cigarette still between his bony fingers. The ashes on the cigarette had formed a long, fragile line and threatened to fall at any second. John stood up quickly and grabbed the ashtray before he knelt down by Sherlock and carefully took the cigarette from him before stubbing it out onto the tray, extinguishing it. He set the tray on the table again before he looked over at his friend, grateful that he had finally been able to fall asleep.

He felt compelled to place a blanket over the top of his friend but then hesitated, unsure if Sherlock would even appreciate the gesture or not. He walked over to the wall and turned the heat up instead. John set the file on the table and grabbed his tea before he took it into the bedroom with him, not wanting to disturb Sherlock as he read. He quietly closed the door and laid down on the bed, his mind still on his friend.

It was amazing; Sherlock couldn't sleep until a mysterious case is put in front of him. It was something that should've kept him awake, kept his mind racing with possibilities as he made deductions but it was also ironic that he couldn't even keep his eyes open to deduct. John smiled to himself and chuckled, realizing that Sherlock had been so relieved to finally have a case, a puzzle to solve after having gone almost two weeks without one that he could finally let himself relax again. He opened his book back up where he had left off and began to read, waiting for Sherlock to wake up and declare the game to be on once again.

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**I apologize for the shortness of this first chapter but if you feed me reviews, I might be able to promise a longer second chapter! **


	2. The House At 71 Lollard Street

**Huge shout out to my only reviewer, for whom this chapter may not exist without! **

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Chapter Two: The House At 71 Lollard Street

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John watched as Sherlock's shoulders shook and felt a pain in his stomach. He rarely ever saw his friend let loose of his emotions like this and he assumed the only reason he was letting them show now was because he was unaware of John's presence in the room. He bit his lip and then quietly stood up before he went into the bathroom to go shower, but mostly just to give Sherlock his privacy.

He felt conflicted. There was a strong part of John Watson that wanted to go back in there and comfort Sherlock and stay at the apartment, but then there was another part that wished to go check out the victims' house on Lollard street. He didn't feel like there was any real rush to do this, however, since both of them were deceased. As far as Watson saw it, the case was over and there was nothing else to go off on. He let the hot water rain down onto his body and once he was done showering, he shut the water off and dried himself off. He could hear his friend rustling about outside the door and became curious what he was doing. John felt his heart skip a beat, fearing that Sherlock was using these moments alone to go through with something.

He quickly slipped on a clean pair of boxers and his dark denim jeans before he opened the door to check out the situation.

"Sherlock?"

No answer. John felt his chest tighten with panic as he walked out of the bathroom and glanced around for his friend. He swallowed hard before he found Sherlock in the kitchen making himself a cup of tea, his eyes red and puffy and it appeared as if he was attempting to hide the fact he had been silently crying on the couch. John wet his lips and looked up at him, the two men looking at each other as an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

"Why didn't you answer when I called for you?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I apologize, I was not aware you were, John. Everything all right?"

John Watson bit his tongue, swallowing the thought he wanted so badly to say; "You tell me." It was the last thing he knew that he should say right now. Both of them knew that Sherlock was not okay but it wasn't the right thing to say. Instead, he just nodded but remained standing there.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "Is… there something else?"

He took a deep breath, unable to bite his tongue any longer. He scratched the back of his neck. "It's just… I thought you were okay, now that we had this case. You… seemed excited by it. Has it not lived up to your expectations?"

Sherlock glanced briefly down at John's feet and shifted his eyes back up but didn't directly look him in the eye. Asking another man why he was crying was uncomfortably awkward enough but asking Sherlock this question seemed ten times worse somehow. "I'm not sure what you mean, John. It's an interesting enough case. Did you want to go to Lollard street then and have a look around?"

John nodded, noticing how Sherlock wasn't admitting to the episode of depression he had had earlier. It didn't surprise him, but he wished so badly that they could talk about it openly. "Yes, let me just shave real quick, find a shirt, and then we can go," he was about to turn around and go back towards the bathroom when he bit his lip hard and turned back to Sherlock, deciding to take a chance. "You know, Sherlock… you can talk to me if something is bothering you. I'm not going to judge you or anything. The last thing we need is for you to be unable to focus on the case."

Sherlock poured the boiling water into his mug, avoiding John's gaze. "I appreciate the sentiment, John, but really, I'm okay. Go shave or else we'll never get a move on. I can feel the cabin fever beginning to settle in again."

"Right then," John went back into the bathroom and lathered his face with shaving cream. As he began to use his razor to make his five o'clock shadow disappear, his worry for his friend began to increase.

It was just like Sherlock Holmes to try and hide his depression he felt, but what was more frustrating was the fact that he was feeling the sadness even when he had just received a fresh case that had somehow managed to spark Sherlock's interest. John had looked over the file and granted, it did look a bit unusual but he couldn't find the mystery that his coworker had found. If he had found the case so exhilarating, why then had the depression come back?

"Would you like a cuppa before we go out? We have time!" Sherlock offered from the kitchen.

John chuckled and smiled to himself. It had to be progress in changing his friend's stoic personality for Sherlock to be offering him tea, and not just making himself some without offering. "No thank you, Sherlock," he called out. "I'm all right!"

"Suit yourself…" he heard his friend reply back, most likely thinking that John couldn't hear him.

John shook his head before he started shaving again. After he was done, he wiped off the excess and checked himself out in the mirror. Once he was satisfied with his appearance, he walked into his room and started to rummage his closet to find a nice sweater. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a soft cough behind him.

"Sherlock, what's… what's the matter?" John had been about to scold him for scaring him but he had seen Sherlock's hesitant eyes and his scolding fell flat. He looked at his friend's hands and noticed the cup of tea was shaking slightly in them.

He took a few steps forward and looked at his friend in concern. Sherlock gave a look of a young child that had broken something expensive and was trying to cover up the fact they had broken it. It wasn't a guilty look, but perhaps a fearful one.

"John," he began in a shaky voice. "I-I know I am not used to being very open with people and being that we're living in close quarters, I'm sure you've seen some of my… behaviors as of late. I can assure you that they won't, in any way, be a distraction in our case…"

John felt his heart sink as he heard the stammer in Sherlock's voice and listened to his words. He sighed to himself before he gently reached out and touched Sherlock's wrists to steady his cup so it wouldn't spill. "Sherlock, just take a deep breath. It's going to be okay. Your health is more important to me than a case, okay?" When his friend nodded, John continued. "I know how you work; you put your emotions aside and concentrate on whatever it is and that's not completely healthy. I know you're in the habit of ignoring how you're feeling when we're working on a case, but… I care about you deeply, Sherlock, and I want you to tell me when you're not feeling up to going somewhere or talking about the case. Do you understand?"

Sherlock looked at John with perplexed and puzzled eyes, his eyebrows scrunched together. "That makes no sense though. My emotions are unimportant to any case and they must be put aside in order to solve it…"

John rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers before he looked back at Sherlock. "What would you tell a cancer patient to do if they were in the hospital but there were troubles back home to deal with, such as paying bills and the like?"

"I would tell them to focus on their treatment in the hospital. It'd be physically impossible for them to pay any bills while they were going through chemotherapy, wouldn't it?"

John nodded, trying to get Sherlock to understand his situation. "Yes, that's right, Sherlock. It's difficult to focus on anything when all you can feel is sadness and physical body ache, right? Are you understanding where I'm getting at now?"

Realization touched Sherlock's eyes now and he nodded before he looked down at his cup. "I feel so utterly ridiculous though, John. Really, it's just… sadness. It's a feeling that I have no reason to feel. It's a chemical imbalance in my brain and it makes no sense for me to have in the first place. Honestly, we shouldn't let it get in the way of this case – "

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock… you shouldn't feel silly or anything though. Like you said, it's a chemical imbalance in the brain. These things can happen to anyone; it doesn't matter your social class or childhood. Your health comes first to me, period. This case can wait, end of discussion. All right?" John gave Sherlock a stern look that gave no room for arguments.

He nodded once and searched John's face before he gave a small, embarrassed smile. "Err, thanks John…"

John smiled back and gently patted his friend's arm. "Don't mention it, Sherlock. I'm always here for you. Now then, tell me honestly, how are you feeling at this moment?"

He appeared to think for a moment. He might've been a sociopath but he wasn't one to such a degree that he was entirely cold-hearted and unfeeling. He could call himself a sociopath as much as he wanted to but he wasn't a textbook one.

"I feel… okay. I feel like I'm okay enough to go check out the scene on Lollard street. I think it might even help keep my mind preoccupied as well," he replied, taking a sip of his tea.

John nodded and then walked over to the dresser and pulled on a sweater, feeling self-conscious that he had been shirtless still this entire time. Maybe that was why Sherlock had appeared uncomfortable standing in front of him. He grabbed his coat and began to pull it on while he noticed his friend was looking like he wasn't sure what to do with his tea.

"Sit down and drink it, Sherlock. I'm just a bit chilly. Really, finish it. You know better to let tea go to waste," John playfully winked at him.

Sherlock smiled a sincere smile and then walked back out to the living room before he sat down on the couch. John followed him out and sat in his chair before he looked over to him.

"What did you make of the file? You fell asleep last night before we could discuss it…"

"Oh, right," Sherlock nodded. "The change of the last names appeared a bit odd, I think. Obviously, the unknown reason for the woman dying was a bit strange as well. What did you think, Watson?"

John nodded in agreement. "Yes, those were both strange indeed. Is that common though, to change the names of the deceased in the reports?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure, which is a very strange thing for me to say in the first place," Sherlock pondered. "Perhaps whoever created the file wanted their last initials on record to let it be known that they weren't related. I cannot think of any other reasoning for it. As far as the woman's cause of death being unknown, perhaps the autopsy results haven't come in yet."

Two 'perhaps,' one 'not sure,' and one 'cannot' were words that rarely appeared in Sherlock's vocabulary. It was all too often when he was positive of something and never failed to sprout his vast knowledge. It almost worried John that his friend had used these words in according to this case but he tried not to appear overly concerned. Maybe he should feel grateful; maybe it was a sign of Sherlock's new and alternating personality change. Then again, if he was unsure about something, maybe it was a reason to worry about his state of mind and therefore, a cause of concern.

John sighed to himself and tried to come up with possibilities and answers. "Maybe… the murderer used something that could've been undetected in an autopsy?"

Sherlock straightened up and looked at John with a thoughtful look. "That's a possibility, but… why did I not think of that…?"

"You've got a lot on your plate right now, mentally and emotionally. It's not that surprising you didn't come up with that idea," John pointed out.

Sherlock said nothing as he continued to sip his tea. John watched as he took out his smart phone and started to no doubt text Greg Lestrade. "What if," he started, punching in the letters to his text at the same time as the wheels began to turn in his head. "Her cause of death is unknown because she's still alive?"

John pondered this for several moments as Sherlock looked over his text that read:

_What were the results of the autopsy report? - SH_

He sent it before he looked up at John again with an inquiring expression. John shook his head. "That makes no sense though, Sherlock. They couldn't very well put the words 'cause of death' if she wasn't dead… they most likely wouldn't even mention that, would they?"

Sherlock looked stumped again and sighed heavily, taking another inquisitive sip from his cup. He heard his phone chime with the sound of his receiving text tone and looked down at it to see a message from Greg:

_Just call me and ask me your questions, Sherlock. I have no time to text you answers that are already in the case file. - DI Lestrade_

"Well, the Detective Inspector isn't going to be of much help to us. I suppose we'll have to figure this out on our own, just like always," Sherlock replied before he pocketed his phone.

John watched him with peaked curiosity but knew better than to question him. Sherlock suddenly grabbed his phone out again and began to type in what John assumed to be searches for undetectable poisons. His face became disappointed at the results.

"Well, there are the plants such as oleander, ivy, lily-of-the-valley, wisteria, yew, cyclamen, philodendron. Then there are the obvious poisons such as ammonia, bleach, garden insecticides, petrol, paint thinner fumes…" Sherlock both thought about and read off of his phone.

John pondered as well. "Wait, but the plants would show up on the toxicology report, wouldn't they? It'd be apparent if she ingested it somehow if they opened her up, found it inside of her body…"

Sherlock looked frustrated now. He slammed his cup on the table and gave a defeated sigh before he rubbed his temples with both his index fingers. "All we have at the moment is speculation until we go check out the scene. I believe after we look at the house, we should have a look at the body and see if we can find anything out for ourselves."

John gave a nod of general agreement and then stood up. "All right then, let's go down to Lollard street then…"

Sherlock leapt up and grabbed his long, black coat before he put it on and lead John out of the apartment and towards the street for a cab.

It sped easily down Baker Street, taking the fastest route the driver knew towards Lollard. John looked over at Sherlock who had his eyes closed but was counting under his breath, of what he already knew; he was counting to see how long it would take them to arrive to the house. He did it with any new place their case took them. A part of John wondered if Sherlock counted the minutes just in case they would have to run there for some reason, or figure out what mode of transportation would be faster than running.

When he arrived at fourteen minutes, the cab parked itself alongside of the street and Sherlock ordered him to stay put and that the two of them would not be long.

Sherlock ducked under the neon green police tape that surrounded the one doorway. He attempted to turn the doorknob but John heard him growl in frustration when he didn't open itself.

"Oh, really now! Why in the world would the police even bother locking it up for?"

John stood there on the other side of the tape, his hands in his pockets as he looked around, feeling like a thief attempting to break in. "Well, I'd assume they locked it avoid burglaries, Sherlock…"

He gave him a familiar look that silently told John he was being thick. "Please, John… your ignorance is showing," he replied curtly, as if he was telling his friend that his zipper on his pants was down. "Why would they lock a door to a deceased person's house if one of them were not still alive…?"

John wasted no time in replying. "Perhaps to keep you out?"

"Exactly, they're hiding something. They don't want me to see something they know I could deduce from," Sherlock spoke with both disdain and curiosity in his voice. He started to kick the door, knowing the sweet spot from other places.

It was merely moments before he kicked the door in and John ducked under the police tape upon entering the house. "Why would they hide anything from you? Greg Lestrade gave you this case specifically for you to help them figure out!"

Sherlock ignored him as he started looking around and it was at this moment where John could see him in his mind palace, where he analyzed and went off of speculation and deduction. When he walked into the living room, John felt like he could see exactly what his friend was thinking.

**_Disarray. Dirt. Dust. Empty cans. Tea rings._**

John knew better to not talk unless Sherlock did first to bounce ideas off of him. He stood there silently and looked around the house. He saw Sherlock take curious glances from the living room to the kitchen.

"Where do you think their deaths took place, John?"

John Watson looked at his friend with unsure eyes. "We don't know the exact cause of their deaths yet… why are you looking towards the kitchen?"

Sherlock's eyes darted from cupboard to cupboard, his mind turning.

Poison? Secrets? Affair. "What she was having an affair, John? She decided to poison him. They seemed to have a controlling relationship – "

John cocked an eyebrow at him. "I'm sorry, what makes you think that, Sherlock? You don't even know them. They could've been quite happy for all you know."

Sherlock pointed towards the living room corners. "The room's dirty, there's dust on the television set and the table that it sits on," he pointed towards the table that separated the television from the couch. "Tea rings on the coffee table, books and magazines strewn about. He's definitely in control of their relationship. If it was a mutual relationship, even a happy marriage, he wouldn't have a problem with her keeping the house clean. In fact, he'd point out to her when something was wrong, out of place, a stain on the table, but no. He likes to have control over her. She's obviously scared of him or else she'd take back the control and keep the house tidy and neat."

John thought about this possibility but he couldn't see Sherlock's logic, just like always. He was open to the idea but his lesser instincts told him differently. "What if they're just both messy? Not everyone is compulsively neat like you, Sherlock. They could both have busy jobs and no time to clean."

"Why haven't they hired a maid then? Busy jobs might imply better than average pay. They could afford one to help clean the house," Sherlock rebutted.

John shrugged and nodded, beginning to see his friend's thinking. He watched as Sherlock strode over to the kitchen and then bit his lip in thought before he grabbed the latex gloves from his pockets and slipped them on. He looked on as he opened the cupboards, seeing the wheels turning again.

**_Spices, plates, glasses._**

**_Poison? Hidden? Pockets? Taken?_**

"Do you think Dectective Inspector Lestrade would take poison from the scene?"

John mulled this question over. "If he considered it evidence, sure. Why not? Do you not see any there?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and then took his phone out to text Lestrade again:

_Specifically, what did you take from the scene? - SH_

He held the phone in his hand as he continued to search the kitchen, soon receiving a text. He glanced down at it.

_You mean besides the two dead bodies and the evidence? -DI Lestrade_

Sherlock scoffed in frustration finally gave in before he dialed him before putting it on speakerphone for John to hear as well.

"What the hell are you doing in that house, Sherlock?" an annoyed voice asked on the other side.

John sighed inwardly, looking around for any signs of struggling that might go with Sherlock's theory of the husband being controlling. He still kept his ears open as the two men started to banter.

"What did you take, Lestrade? It's important! I need answers!"

"Well, that's a first, isn't it? You needing answers from me!" Lestrade exclaimed. "We took two dead bodies from the scene, along with a knife and – "

Sherlock straightened up now and his eyes widened. "Wait, did you say a knife? What about any vials or bottles of what potentially be poison? Any plants or household cleaners?"

John looked back at him with interest, unable to deny how brilliant his friend looked when he was excited about a mysterious case. He knew interesting and complicated cases were one of the things Sherlock Holmes lived for.

"The folks at Toxicology told me about ten minutes ago that Mr. Hutchinson was poisoned by both a plant and by arsenic but we found neither at the house, so you're wasting your time there, Sherlock."

Sherlock was quiet for several moments again before he realized Lestrade was shouting at him. "Yes, I'm still here! What about the wife? Any idea what her cause of death was yet?"

"None, but we have our assumptions…"

"You shouldn't assume anything about anyone until you're absolutely sure you know," Sherlock stated, his mind still reeling. "What if she was poisoned as well, but it was an untraceable poison? A lesser known one?"

"That was one of our assumptions too. That seems to be the most likely case but we're still at a loss at why the knife was there! She has no stab wounds we can see or anything," Lestrade answered, a group of voices beginning to overpower his own. "Look, Sherlock. I have to go – "

Before Greg could hang up on him, Sherlock beat him to the punch, ending the call between them. John turned around to face Sherlock, his eyes clouded over in thought. He put the phone back into his pocket before he started to head out of the house.

"Wait," John attempted to stop him. "What about the knife? Won't they want to get fingerprints off of it?"

"That would be pointless, John," Sherlock spoke calmly, exiting the house and heading back towards the cab. "It's one of the deceased's fingerprints on it. The blood isn't all theirs; some of it is their attacker's."

John hurried inside the cab and didn't wait for it to start down the road before asking more questions to Sherlock. "You think there was another person."

It had been more of a statement than a question but John felt more confused than ever now. Where had the plants and the poison come in? What was the point of both of them if the third person had the opportunity to stab them?

Sherlock looked at John with a mischievous and almost a flirtatious smile. "I know there was another person, John."

"Right, then… so where are we off to now?"

Sherlock leaned forward towards the cabbie. "To the hospital morgue, please."


	3. London, City of Love and Rejection

**Thanks for the positive reviews! You guys are great. Do me a solid and keep reviewing, okay? **

**Also, just a warning. I'm using Mary in this fic so there MIGHT possibly be a bit of Sign of Three / Last Vow spoilers but it's also a much younger Mary than you might know from the show. So possibly read at your own risk, I suppose? I'm not sure how to describe the spoilers because I just took a few concepts from both episodes but not the age and exact ideas from the show. If you haven't seen them yet, then be advised.**

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Chapter Three: London, City of Love and Rejection

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John sighed and glanced at his watch as he and Sherlock both stood in the chilly morgue room. Sherlock was looking down at the two dead bodies but hadn't said a word to John. He suspected his friend was in his mind palace, mentally tracing over the wife and husband's bodies in search of any clues of how exactly they might've died.

"We've been here nearly an hour, Sherlock…"

His friend put his hand up to silence him. Sherlock closed his eyes, no doubt trying to picture the layout of the house again, perhaps even imagining the struggle that took place. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again. "John, what do you notice about the wife?"

John took a few steps over to where Sherlock was and examined the wife's lifeless body as it lay on the metal slab. "No apparent cuts on her skin – "

Sherlock let out a loud scoffing sound. "I didn't ask for the obvious, John. Look at her fingernails," he gently grabbed one of her hands and held it so John could see it. "Blood, under the nails, on all her fingers. This suggests she tried to hurt her attacker. He was most likely holding her in a position, as if he planned to take her away somewhere. She fought back, something he didn't expect. She was the one with the kitchen knife."

The pieces began to come together for John now as Sherlock spoke his rationale aloud. "She stabbed him. That was his blood on the floor…"

"Precisely. It had to be someone she knew, though. They invited him inside. No sign of breaking and entering, well… besides for us, of course," Sherlock shrugged as he leaned down over the husband.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you… sniffing him, Sherlock? How many times have we told you not to sniff the dead?"

Sherlock ignored John's crack at him. "He smells like… parsnips. Lean down and tell me what you smell."

"I am not leaning over him and smelling this dead person," John shook his head, putting his hands up.

"Oh for God's sake, John. Smell him!" Sherlock grabbed his friend's coat and pulled him over so he was almost face to face with the deceased husband.

John was about to struggle against him when a curious smell raised through his nostrils. "It is parsnips… and something else…"

"Musty. He's been poisoned by Conium maculatum, or as it's otherwise sometimes known… poison hemlock," Sherlock deduced. "The only poisonous plant that smells like both turnips and must."

John straightened up again and looked at him. "Hemlock? I thought that only grew in the States?"

"It can grow in a lot of different places, John… it flourishes near water, mostly near streams and ditches. Somehow, he forced him to ingest it," Sherlock thought aloud now, the wheels in his mind turning once again. "He ate it willingly, it would seem. He doesn't have the blood or skin under his nails like she does. He didn't try to struggle. They were attacked separately, but within a few hours of each other."

"Why would he eat poisonous hemlock willingly though?" John asked, confused as he tried to make sense of this bizarre situation.

Sherlock looked up at him with a small smile on his face. "Their visitor cooked it into a meal of some sort for him. His wife wasn't home yet to have the meal, so he ate all of it. He couldn't taste it… the killer made some sort of turnip based dish so it wouldn't taste out of place."

"That's all well and good but… Lestrade said something about him also having been poisoned by arsenic. They found arsenic in the Toxicology report, remember?"

Sherlock licked his lips in thought. "Right… arsenic's usually only found in groundwater near mines. Where else could it have come from…?" he asked no one in particular.

John watched him look at some invisible map in front of him and he knew he was back in his mind palace. He occasionally nodded or shook his head to reject a hypothesis or gather information.

**Bottled water, United States… New Jersey, parts of the southwest  
New England, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota.**

John watched his friend shake his head with a mixture of uncertainty and doubt.

**Arsenic poisoning epidemic in Bangladesh and neighboring countries (groundwater)  
Southeast Asia = Vietnam, Cambodia**

**People's Republic of China, arsenic found in RICE. **

"That's it! Rice… our killer imported rice over and it was contaminated with arsenic, and he knew it. He cooked the arsenic and the hemlock into it," Sherlock spoke with confidence.

"Why both of them? Why not just leave it at hemlock and forget the arsenic? What difference would it have made?"

Sherlock smirked at his partner's ignorance. "All the difference, John. All the difference in the world. Arsenic is lethal in large quantities and there's been reports of imported rice containing slightly lower levels but still high enough for it to be reported as a possible danger. The killer needed a backup plan in case the arsenic wasn't enough. That's why he threw in the hemlock; he threw it in for good measure. Probably a good thing he did too or else this gentleman might still be alive…"

John grimaced and shook his head. "I'm sorry? Good for who?"

Sherlock walked around John and walked back over to the wife. He looked at her for a while with a puzzled look. "I fear she's going to be more difficult," he started to turn her over, his eyes darting here and there for any clues or hints. He then nearly jumped in excitement when he found an area on her neck. "Just here! Look, John; there's a very small pinprick of a hole in the skin. Look how the area around it is puckered and stretched out, no wrinkles on this side like the other side."

John examined the area Sherlock was pointing at. "What do you think would cause that?"

Sherlock straightened up and smiled his almost sick, knowing smile. "Botulinum, also commonly known as Botox. It appears he injected it into her not long after she came back home. After she saw her husband lying dead on the floor, she reached for the kitchen knives, and then managed to at least cut her attacker a few times before he injected her with the Botulinum. She went into paralysis, her respiratory system shut down, and then she was dead, but not before he could bleed all over the floor first."

"Remarkable," John replied, impressed.

"Hardly, but he does deserve an A for effort…" Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

"It doesn't make sense though. Why would he go to the trouble to get imported rice, hemlock, and Botox and poison both of them? What do you think they all have in common?"

Sherlock now was looking bored. "I haven't the faintest idea, John. Most likely, absolutely nothing. They were probably just the easiest to find slash steal."

"Why these two people though? Why not anyone else? What connection did he have with them, or grudge?" John inquired curiously, not satisfied with Sherlock's seemingly simple deductions.

"Those are the questions, aren't they? I think that's what we need to ask him," Sherlock spoke almost tiredly.

John looked at him with wide eyes. "Wait, you're not suggesting we actually try to find this psychopath, are you? Are you honestly suggesting we go looking for this serial killer?"

"Of course that's what I'm suggesting, John! I wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if I let the murderer get away, would I?" Sherlock asked as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John shook his head in disbelief. "We've let other cases go unsolved before when we couldn't find the killer. Why are you so hell bent on this one?"

Sherlock propped his collar up and fixed his scarf before he pushed both the husband and wife back into their temporary tombs. "Because it's probably the only thing that's keeping me sane right now…"

John felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. "Not today… you don't look well, Sherlock. When's the last time you even ate anything?" When Sherlock rolled his eyes and grew silent, John gave him a stern look. "Sherlock!"

He sighed heavily and then started walking out of the morgue. "Please, John, stop being so melodramatic! You're just as bad as Mycroft… or my mother."

John resisted saying anything until they were out of the hospital and crawling into the back of a cab. "We're done crime-solving for today. You need a rest and some food. But seriously, when is the last time you ate anything?"

Sherlock mumbled under his breath something John couldn't hear.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Oh for crying out loud, I said yesterday afternoon! I'm fine, though… _really_," insisted Sherlock, leaning in towards the driver. "There's an extra five pounds in it for you if you could drive just a bit faster."

John looked at Sherlock worriedly but wanted to save this conversation for somewhere more private. All he could do was shake his head, not wanting to believe how negligent his friend had become. There was also another part of him, a small part, that felt angry at Sherlock for being so neglectful of his own needs. He could barely believe he was still standing and talking. The other part of him felt the need to take care of his friend since he could hardly take care of himself.

As soon as they made it home again and entered their flat, John turned on Sherlock. "I really don't understand how you can run on fumes for almost twenty-four hours. Look at you! You're downright exhausted because you haven't eaten anything since yesterday, and I don't doubt you've lost a few kilos as well!"

Sherlock sighed again in exasperation and started to slowly pace back and forth. "I'm fine, John! You're not my mother and I'm perfectly fine without a second one! Why are you even worried about me?"

John couldn't believe he would even dare ask that question. He tried to bite his tongue, biting back the words he so desperately wanted to say to him but his impatience was increasing faster than he could think about anything else. "Damn it, Sherlock, I'm worried about you because I don't want to have to look at your body down in that morgue! You look like a royal wreck and you're hardly even sleeping at all… I care about you because you're my best friend and I love you!"

The words came out before he could swallow them back down his throat. John froze and looked at a surprised Sherlock. The two were quiet for several minutes, and all John could think about was how amazing it was that his friend was speechless, for once in his life. Eventually, Sherlock gave a clear of his throat, somehow trying to separate the uncomfortable silence with the sounds from his throat.

"Right then," Sherlock started, looking at his hands before he looked back up at John. "T-That's… very nice of you to say. I can assure you that I will not end up in the morgue though, John. I haven't finished this case yet."

"Damn it, Sherlock… stop joking around."

"I'm not joking, John. I'm really okay… but if you want me to have a bit of toast or something, then… I will, to… satisfy you," Sherlock said reluctantly.

John finally forced a smile now but there was a small part of him that wondered if Sherlock actually knew what he had meant by love. Did Sherlock ever feel love? Was he ever in love before? It seemed possible but he couldn't picture him showing any sign of familial love towards Mycroft. Even though he sometimes acted like a cold, unfeeling robot, John knew that somewhere deep inside of Sherlock, he had to feel something close to love. The question really was though, did he feel the same kind of love towards John as John felt towards him? He feared the answer could be no.

"You eating would make me happy. Do you want me to put the kettle on for tea? I was thinking of having a cup," he offered, feeling somewhat crestfallen when his proclamation of love was not returned.

"Umm… yes, sure. That sounds good," he watched as John turned his back on him to turn the stove on and then forced himself to speak again. "John, have I… done something to upset you?"

Yes, John wanted to scream at him. Just tell me you love me back. I need you! I need you in my life and losing you would absolutely kill me. "No," he answered aloud. "Of course not. I didn't mean to yell earlier; I'm just worried about you is all."

Sherlock nodded in understanding and then sat down at the breakfast table. He stretched out and was quiet, probably focusing on the case again. John tended to his friend's toast and buttered it before placing it in front of him and then turning towards the stove.

"John, what did you mean by what you said just now? About… how you love me?" Sherlock spoke awkwardly.

John Holmes nearly missed the cup when he heard the question but quickly recovered enough to pour the hot water over the tea bag in the cup. I meant that I love you, you stupid git, John half wanted to tell him. I meant that I would kill for you and die for you if it meant that you'd still be alive. "How do you think I meant it?"

Sherlock looked at John quizzically, trying to figure him out by his appearance but was only left with disappointment. "Well, love is subjective, isn't it? There's all kinds of love. You're not like our clients, John. You give nothing away... anymore."

John couldn't stop himself from half smirking at this. He placed Sherlock's tea in front of him before pouring one for himself and then sat across from him. "I suppose love is subjective. How do you feel about me?" he attempted to ask casually.

Sherlock thought about the question much longer than John would've liked him to. Finally, he bit his lip and then gave a small shrug. "You're my friend, my only friend. You've saved me more than once during our time together and I'm very grateful for you, John. I somehow believe that you didn't mean love in the platonic sense, did you?"

John didn't know whether to feel relief or embarrassment so he felt only the latter. He could feel his cheeks burning red and he tried to hide it by taking a drink from his tea. He held it between his hands. "Not particularly, no… I don't believe I meant it in that way."

Sherlock nodded and looked down at the table, trying to look anywhere but John's eyes. When John did look at him however, Sherlock looked conflicted, anxious, uncomfortable. "I… can't love you, John. I'm eternally grateful to have you in my life and I can honestly say I wouldn't want to talk to anyone else in my life but… I'm s-sorry, John. I just… can't love you."

John didn't feel like his hopes could be dashed against the rocks any harder until he heard what Sherlock said. Once he had said it, he could then only hear a loud, high pitched noise that seemed to block out everything else. He swallowed hard and glanced away, not wanting Sherlock to see how hurt he was. He couldn't let him see how weak right now.

"Right, of course… I mean, why would you think that way about me, right?" John asked, trying to rationalize the rejection. He tried to act casual about it, hoping that he could somehow joke about this and turn it back into regular conversation.

"No, John, that's… not how I meant it," Sherlock nearly whispered, his eyes even more conflicted than before. "Damn it, this is… really difficult for me."

John stood up, unable to take any more humiliation for one day. "No, Sherlock. Really, I understand. You don't love me back that way because you can't. There's someone else, isn't there?"

When his friend didn't say anything, he took his silence for a yes. He nodded and then forced a small smile before he pushed his chair in. "That's fine… it's okay…"

"No, John – "

He shook his head and faked a shrug off. "No, really. It's. Okay. Just let it go, and we'll continue on with our case tomorrow. You should try and get some sleep." John couldn't bear to look into Sherlock's stone grey eyes any more so he walked out of the kitchen and into his bedroom.

Once he arrived at his room, he closed the door and then punched the wall hard in frustration and anguish. He felt the pain shoot through his fingers and down his hand but he ignored it because it felt nothing like the pain he was feeling in his heart at this moment. He lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, not bothering to do anything as a hot tear slid down his cheek.

* * *

When John opened his eyes, he saw that the sun had set and darkness had taken over. It felt cruelly appropriate to how he was currently feeling. Why didn't he just lie? Why did he have to admit his love for Sherlock wasn't just platonic? How could he had been so stupid?

He forced himself off the bed and headed out into the living room to see Sherlock lying on the black leather couch on his back, texting. John was at a loss for words but knew they had to move on, for the sake of this case and future cases. They were still friends and partners, after all. "Err, what are you up to?"

Sherlock didn't look up from his screen. "Texting Lestrade, letting him in on what we figured out at the morgue, about how the husband and wife died," he answered somewhat distantly.

John nodded and instantly felt foolish, realizing that Sherlock's eyes were still on the phone screen. "Good, that's good. He should know about that."

"Mmhm…"

John walked over to the bookcase and pulled out a murder mystery he had started reading a few days prior. He sat down in his chair and then opened it to his bookmark, trying to focus on the plot. It was difficult; he could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes and his friend's long bony fingers and dark curls made it hard for him to concentrate on anything else.

"Do you want to do anything tonight?"

"Mm… like what?" Sherlock asked, still distracted by his texting.

"I don't know, go down to the pub for a pint or two? We could talk…"

Sherlock sent his essay long text to Lestrade and then turned to look at John, sadness in his eyes. "Go if you like. I'd just rather stay in tonight, I think."

"Sherlock, you're not going to figure out who the killer is tonight. There's not enough clues…"

He sat upright now and searched John's face curiously. "What makes you think it wasn't Moriarty?"

Great, they were talking about the case again, although he partially blamed himself for it. "I never said it wasn't him…"

"So you think it's possible it was?" Sherlock questioned.

John sighed, knowing that his friend was just shooting ideas off of him now. "I don't know. Maybe… I just don't think he knew about this possessive husband and submissive wife somehow. I doubt it could be his parents, and even if it was, I don't believe he's sick enough to kill them both."

Sherlock looked at him in almost a suspicious way. "Why not? Moriarty blew up elderly women and young children for fun. Why don't you think he couldn't kill his own parents?"

"I'll admit, he's sick and demented but that's not his game, Sherlock. You know how he operates. He's more likely to protect his parents than kill them," John was beginning to become annoyed with Sherlock. He was just using him to bounce ideas back and forth about the case. "Besides, that'd be too easy."

He closed his book and stood back up before he grabbed his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

John grabbed his wallet. "Out, for a drink. Are you coming?"

Sherlock gave him a dismissive wave, shaking his head. "Go on, then. I'll see you in the morning."

John was slightly taken back by how old his reply was but pushed his hurt back down inside of him, determined not to let Sherlock see it. As he left the flat, he even wondered if Sherlock Holmes could feel hurt, like love. Maybe he really was a robot; cold, emotionless, devoid of all feelings that makes a person human. He walked until he came upon the nearest pub and entered it. He sat down at the bar and ordered a pint of beer to start.

He hadn't planned to get Sherlock drunk or anything but it would've been nice to have some companionship while he drank. Drinking alone seemed to border on being an alcoholic, versus drinking with someone else was more like drinking with friends. As he began to down his pint, his thoughts back to Sherlock, but not the walk-into-danger, know-it-all showoff Sherlock Holmes. He was thinking about the nervous, hand-trembling, scared Sherlock. Seeing him in that state had shaken John to his core. The whole time he's known Sherlock, he'd always been confident, cool, and collected. Somehow, for some reason, he had let John see his true self, the part he kept locked away in order to successfully solve cases and interrogate the suspects.

"Hey," a female voice interrupted his thoughts. "Here alone?" it asked, almost in a hopeful tone of voice.

John took another long drink of his lager and nodded before turning to look at the woman who had started the conversation. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. John… Watson," he held out his hand.

The young woman shook his hand with her soft one and smiled. "Mary, pleasure to meet you, John Watson. So what brings a handsome man like you here?"

The more he looked at her, he more he realized that she was a decent amount of years younger than himself. He looked at her curiously and almost felt embarrassed. "Well, I could ask the same about a beautiful woman such as yourself… I-I'm… I'm so sorry to be a major git and ask this but… how old are you, Mary?"

She grinned now and looked back at John with almost devious eyes. "Twenty-seven. It's a bit discourteous to ask a woman her age, isn't it?" she teased him.

"Yes, I apologize… I just wanted to make sure I wasn't about to be arrested by the police or anything," he chuckled nervously. "Now that I've managed to a complete fool of myself, why are you still talking to me? I wouldn't blame you if you decided to just slap me and walk away."

Mary laughed now but still continued to smile at him. "If I did that, I wouldn't have a nice man to invite back to my flat," she replied in a playful tone.

He raised his eyebrows now, feeling his broken heart starting to piece itself back together the longer she stood by him. "Is that so? Well, can I at least buy you a drink first?"

She nodded and sat down beside him. "That would be lovely, John."

John couldn't believe what had happened in the course of today. They had figured out both causes of death and what had happened to Mr and Mrs. Hutchinson, gotten rejected by Sherlock, and then had found possibly the most beautiful (not to mention legal) woman he'd ever seen in his life. It was a roller coaster ride for him and even though he had hit a low point just a half hour earlier with his best friend, he was beginning to ride upwards once again.

John and his new friend Mary talked for a good few hours, drank some, and her company was almost enough for him to forget about Sherlock.

Almost.


	4. Another Murder At Lollard Street

**I apologize for broken OTPs! Breaking OTPS are always a good way to add the drama, I believe! Trust me, it hurt me to do that more than it hurt you. Thank you for reviewing though! **

**On to chapter four! **

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Chapter Four: Another Murder At Lollard Street

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John Watson woke up the next morning with a slight headache as a wave of dizziness rushed over him, causing him to grip the pillow with both his arms to steady himself. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, recanting the events that took place last night. The two of them hadn't had an excessive amount; just enough to make them screw up their courage to let their inhibitions run free.

He opened his eyes again and saw Mary biting her lip and looking at John with almost unsure blue-green eyes. John smiled at her and searched her face, trying to read it like Sherlock could so easily read people. It was right now more than ever when he wished for his best friend's ability to do so. He turned over to his side so he was facing her.

"Are… are you all right, you know, with what we did last night?"

She nodded and forced a small smile. "I am, I'm the one who pressured you to come over here. Last night was nice and there was nothing about it that I regret, John…"

"But…?" John asked, gently nudging her to continue with her eventual thought.

She took a deep breath and then let it out. "But, I'm not sure if I'm ready for a relationship just yet. I just got out of a particularly nasty one recently and I just don't know if I'm ready to share every bit of information about me yet. You must absolutely hate me now…" she looked down at the bed.

John shook his head and took her hands in his. "Hey… hey, that's fine, Mary. I understand. Last night was great for me too but if you're not ready to make this an everyday thing, then that's fine with me. Whatever you want to do, Mary," John searched her eyes, trying to reassure her. "Okay? You can call, or… don't call. I think we just might've needed last night, to figure ourselves out and… let ourselves have a bit of fun."

She looked up at him now and smiled a sincere smile now, looking comforted. "Ah, well… that's a relief. I was worried you'd think me a… a slag or something for inviting you over and not actually be with you."

John shook his head and tucked a loose piece of her hair behind her ear. "I'd never think you were a slag, Mary. We're both consenting adults. We can do what we like with our bodies. Wanting to feel loved, even if it's just for a night, is not a sin. If I can make you feel better in some way, then I'm content with that."

Mary nodded in understanding and then leaned in and kissed John's cheek before she gently nuzzled his face. "Do you want some breakfast before you go back?"

He thought about Sherlock and the case they still had yet to fully solve together. He thought about their short discussion last night and felt his nerves tighten. "I think I should just… head out. I'm sorry."

She shrugged and then stood up, just wearing her under clothes. "That's fine… don't be sorry," she winked playfully at him. "You have my number, just in case you get lonely again."

John stood up and began to put his clothes back on. "Oh, do I? I don't recall exchanging numbers…"

She smiled brighter now. "I put myself as a contact into your phone after you fell asleep. I do hope you can keep me company again soon."

John didn't get a chance to reply before she walked towards the bathroom, closing the door before turning the shower on. He exhaled tiredly and put his shoes on before he left her house and glanced around at what street he was on. She must've hailed a cab for them last night. He did the same and was relieved to be home at 221B Baker's Street again.

"Are you dying of cancer, John?" Sherlock's voice trailed through the living room as John walked in.

"Excuse me? Not that I'm aware of… why?"

Sherlock stood up from where he lay on the couch. "Only people who are dying would act so irrationally as you have. You barely ever go down to the pub so late in the evening and then sleep with a random woman."

John looked at him quizzically. "I never said I slept with… a woman…"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, interest in his eyes. "Was it a… man?"

He scoffed and shook his head. "No, Sherlock. I mean, I didn't tell you I slept with anyone last night! You're just assuming now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then almost looked angry. "Oh please, John. You know me better than that. I never make assumptions about anything! I make deductions… you came in here in the same clothes you left in last night, and you haven't showered or shaved. It doesn't take a person like me to make the deduction that you slept over at someone's house, be them a man or a woman! Anyone can figure that out!"

John was surprised by his friend's accusing tone of voice and watched as Sherlock had started to pace. "Are you… upset that I slept at a woman's place?"

"No, of course not. It's… it's none of my business who you sleep with, John. I just didn't think – "

John had started to feel his own brand of anger now. He had thrown himself out there for Sherlock last night and his friend had rejected him. He had tried. "Wow, is that a first for the great Sherlock Holmes? Not thinking? I think your whole problem is that you overthink!"

Sherlock shook his head, almost in disbelief that his friend could do such an idiotic and predictable thing, such a painfully ordinary thing. "I thought you were strictly into men?"

John ran his hands through his hair, unable to believe he was having this uncomfortable conversation with Sherlock. Well, might as well jump right in, he had come this far anyway. "You know, Sherlock, it's really amazing how people can only see 'gay' or 'straight' and completely forget that there is such a thing as 'bisexual.' I figured that _you_, of all people, would be able to see that I was identifying as that! What is your problem anyway, Sherlock? You rejected me! I threw myself out there and you just let me drown!"

Sherlock stopped now and whipped his body around. "I told you that I couldn't love you! It wasn't because I didn't want to, John! It's because no one's ever truly loved me so I can't fathom how I have it in me to love someone else! You think I never thought about us like that, ever? We've only lived together for three years, in close quarters, sharing the same bathroom, eating in the same kitchen… how can I not let that thought cross my mind? It'd be impossible…"

John cocked his head to one side, trying to understand what Sherlock was trying to say. "So… let me get this straight; you have thought about us, being together, as a couple? And… you do love me…?"

Sherlock looked like he had hit a brick wall and looked anxiously at John as he looked uncertain, someone that he rarely ever held in his eyes. He was quiet for several minutes and then he waved it off. "It doesn't make any difference anyway. I suspect you'll want to see her again."

John could sense the jealous and coldness in Sherlock's voice and he chewed on his lower lip. "I'm… not sure what I feel for her, Sherlock. I just know that… I can't live without you in my life. You're right; we share these close quarters and it is impossible not to imagine my life with you. I don't know if I even want to imagine it without you. You've given me a reason to live, Sherlock. Do you understand that?" When his friend kept his silence, he continued. "Before I came here, I lived my life from day to day. All I ever kept thinking was that I was missing something from my life. It might've been the excitement of the cases, the running around, almost getting killed, but… all of that was you, and I wouldn't have any of it without you."

Sherlock looked speechless for quite a long time and he stood still, unsure what he should do or say now. John could see the confusion in his eyes but knew that it wasn't confusion towards John. It was genuine human confusion because he literally did not know what to say or what action to take. "Tell me what you're feeling, Sherlock. Let me know what's going on inside that head of yours."

Sherlock played nervously with his hands, massaging the bones in them. He took a few steps closer to John and his face was conflicted with different emotions. "I… I'm not sure what I feel, to be honest. I feel something towards you, but I'm not sure if it's love… or just… friendship. You mean a lot to me, John. I just don't know how to do this, a relationship."

John smiled softly and took a step closer to his friend, almost in awe of Sherlock's innocence when it came to being in love or in a relationship. "We'll take it slow. Love me or… don't love me, I'm not going to try and pressure you one way or the other. You mean a lot to me too, but I don't want you to rush into things with me if you're feeling unsure. It'll take a bit for you to act on how you're feeling because you're not used to it."

Sherlock nodded and swallowed hard. "All my life, I've always thought that emotions were illogical, unpredictable, messy, and got in the way of actual work. I feel something towards you though, and… even if I can't show it yet, I just want you to be aware that I care very deeply towards you."

"I care about you too, Sherlock…" John smiled and then nodded.

Sherlock nodded as well, maybe because it was one of those times he didn't know how else to react. He cleared his throat. "Right then. Has Lestrade contacted you any new information about the killer of Mr and Mrs Hutchinson?"

Of course he would try and focus back on the things that he knew he could handle best, their cases. John took his mobile out of his pocket and opened it to check his messages. "No, he has not. Has he texted you?"

Sherlock shook his head and then looked towards the wall where he had painted his yellow happy face. "He only texts me for help when he's desperate, so either he's not desperate yet or he's already working on a lead."

John watched Sherlock focus on the wall, staring at the smiley face or maybe just working things out in his Mind Palace. He was such a mystery to him and disliked Sherlock's ability to know how people tick. "I'm sorry, I thought that we already figured out the killer was Moriarty?"

"Did I black out or didn't you already claim that this wasn't Moriarty's doing? Didn't we agree that he wouldn't do something so easy?" Sherlock didn't wait for a response to his questions before he started talking again. "I'm not sure who this is, but the only way we're going to be sure is if another person dies. The killer will have a pattern of attack. Moriarty would have to somehow know these victims well enough to be able to sit down and eat with them. That in itself seems unlikely, unless… they were coworkers or something."

John put his hands in his pockets before he rubbed his temples. "Do we… have to talk to about the case right now? Shouldn't we talk about… us?"

Sherlock looked back at his friend with soft eyes. "I thought we covered everything there was to cover. Did you need to talk about something else about our relationship?"

John thought for a minute and then just shook his head, wishing that Sherlock had the correct set of skills to know what he wanted to talk about. They had merely only skimmed the surface of acknowledging they were in a relationship. It had been so brief, he hoped that Sherlock at least had the decency to assume that they were now a couple in love.

"No," he lied, just not wanting to get into it with his friend today. "Umm…"

"Let's just talk about it, John. It's bound to come up again sooner or later. Tell me; what am I doing wrong already?" he asked, sounding defeated.

Seeing the sad look in Sherlock's eyes made his heart sink. He took a few steps closer to him. "You're not doing anything wrong. We just… didn't really talk about our situation in detail. I mean, God Sherlock… don't you have any questions? You've never been in a real relationship before; are you aware of what we are now?" John searched his eyes, needing reassurance.

Sherlock thought for a moment, confusion in his eyes and then looked at John with an innocence he'd only seen once or twice. "What about the woman you were with last night?"

"That was…a one-time thing," John answered. He wasn't absolutely sure about that but he knew he needed to choose. He couldn't be with both of them. "I'm with you now."

"I… don't know how to do this, John," Sherlock nearly whispered, his eyes looking fearful. "You're right; I've never been in a relationship before and… I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Love, feelings, emotions… I don't know how to do this!"

John had never seen his friend in such emotional distress before. He looked like someone had planted a bomb in the apartment somewhere and he couldn't solve the case before the bomb was about to explode. He moved closer and then wrapped his arms around Sherlock before he gently brought him closer. His friend stiffened at first at the foreign touch and then slowly let himself relax. "It'll be okay. You're just supposed to do what you feel is right. Just do what comes natural, all right?"

Sherlock nodded against him and John could feel his arms and shoulders stiffen again. He moved away from him and then sighed, running his hands through his tussled hair. "This is going to take time, John. I can't just… change because we're together now. Y-You're just going to have to be patient with me."

"I understand! I get that, Sherlock. I'm willing to wait. I'm willing to let you do it your way and I don't care how long it takes for you to get used to being with me. I'll wait forever if it means that one day, you might actually feel the love I feel for you! I'm not saying you need to change and for the most part, I don't want you to! I just want _you_," John tried to clarify.

Sherlock tongued his cheek and took a deep breath before he nodded in understanding but his eyes were looking panicked. It was change, a dramatic change, and John wondered how this change was going to affect Sherlock. It worried him but he didn't want to show his worry. "C-Can… can we please talk about something else now?"

He was surprised at Sherlock's plea but he didn't want his friend to down spiral. "Yes, of course. Would you like a cup of tea? I can make us both some. Maybe some lunch?"

"Yes, that sounds good. Umm… I think I'll help you, John…"

"Sherlock, are you okay? You look pale…" John noted, starting into the kitchen, Sherlock close behind him.

"Of course, I'm just… a bit tired is all. Let me get the cups," Sherlock opened the cupboards and grabbed two ceramic jade colored mugs. "So how about we go back to the case? Do you think there's a slight possibility that the killer could be Moriarty?"

John didn't want to mention that they had already discussed that out of fear that his friend might be on the verge of a panic attack. He turned on the burner under the kettle and then got out the teabags. "It's possible but he doesn't seem like the person who can make friends easily."

"Oh, but I can? For all you know, I could be the killer if all you suggest is that he's an antisocial introvert bordering on psychopathic," Sherlock spoke conversationally now. "Obviously, I'm not but that's beside the point, isn't it? He was able to convince Molly that he was straight or at least bisexual for a good few months. He was able to be very convincing friends with her, although granted, she is a bit too gullible."

John looked at Sherlock with curiosity. "Why are you so obsessed with him? Do you want the killer to be Moriarty?"

"Maybe," Sherlock pondered as the kettle started to whistle. "If it was him, at least we'd know he was responsible for the murders. It wouldn't be an unknown variable in the case. It'd be… easier."

"If it was easier, you wouldn't be interested in the case anymore," John said pointedly, tipping the kettle and pouring the hot water into both mugs. "You'd say the case is boring, and then you'd move on."

Sherlock said nothing and just looked down into the mug, watching as the teabag floated towards the top and discolored the water. He put his hands around the cup and just nodded before he whispered, "If it was easier, it'd be over."

John couldn't help but feel worried over Sherlock's lack of excitement over this case. Usually, he couldn't wait to get out there and solve it. He gave him a sympathetic smile. "It'll be over soon. We'll figure out who did this."

Sherlock's phone chirped its usual text notification sound and he wasted no time in taking it out of his inside pocket and looked at it. "The killer's struck again…"

John set his cup back down and looked up in surprise. "Where?"

"Well, that can't be right. Lestrade is saying it's in the same place as the first one, with the Hutchinsons. It's the flat right next to the first one…"

John grabbed his jacket and put it on. "Well let's go over there and look at the scene."

Sherlock agreed and put on his scarf and his own coat before the two of them took a cab back down to Lollard St. but once they arrived, they both noticed the neon yellow tape was blocking the door to apartment 70, the one right beside the first one. Sherlock looked about disapprovingly as he ducked under the tape and walked through the already open door to see Anderson and Lestrade both already poking around the scene.

This flat was set up almost exactly as the first but John noticed there was only one body lying on the floor, ghost white and blue lipped. Sherlock sighed at Lestrade's whole police force on the scene and scoffed, pouting like a young child.

"I don't see why you can't leave your incompetent policemen at home and just let me have a look about first, Lestrade! I mean, really. These people couldn't do a worse job at making sure the scene is clear of their disgusting fingerprints…"

Lestrade waved Sherlock off, used to his belittlement of Scotland Yard's police force. He rolled his eyes. "You're just lucky I let you come here at all!"

"No, Lestrade. I believe _you're_ the lucky one. Without me, you all would have nothing to go on and you'd all be as lost as small children in a maze. Now, go away and let me think!" Sherlock ordered, looking about.

John just shrugged helplessly when Lestrade looked at him. He shook his head and then motioned for his crew to take a break outside. They were all just about gone when Anderson turned to Sherlock, giving him a disgusted look.

"You may be a consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, but remember that at the end of the day, we're the ones who get all the credit."

Sherlock turned to him and smirked smugly. "Oh, is that so, Anderson? I apologize; do remind me whose name was in the papers for the past twenty crimes I've solved?"

John couldn't help but smile when this appeared to shut Anderson up. He watched as he disappeared outside as well. He moved closer to Sherlock and then looked down at the deceased body, kneeling. "What do you reckon she died of? There's certainly a lot of blood…"

Sherlock cast his look down at her. "She was an innocent bystander. She must of come out of one of the rooms while the killer was torturing her parents. She's only about eleven, but she must have been hiding under one of the beds while he was out here."

John's stomach sunk, not having seen how small the body was until now. "Oh my God. She really was only a child. How can you talk about her like she's just another dead person at a crime scene? Are you really that cold?"

Sherlock looked at John with stern eyes. "We need to remain objective about the situation. Why would he shoot her and not her parents?"

John tried to focus but he couldn't stop his voice from shaking as he looked at the child that was lying face down in the middle of the room. "M-Maybe… maybe he panicked?"

"Maybe, or maybe he needed her parents to obey him and do what he ordered them to do. He could've shot her to prove a point. That seems more likely than the idea of him panicking. He might've panicked if she was a he and they were at least two hundred and fifty pounds heavier. She's just a child, she wouldn't have been able to hurt him if she tried. She might've surprised him by coming out, but I doubt that he shot her in the face because she simply surprised him by her appearance," Sherlock deduction, side stepping around the girl.

John despised how cold his partner sounded. He was usually cold during these cases but somehow, it hurt him more now. He swallowed hard, feeling sick. He forced himself to look away at the girl and tried to focus again on the case. "Well, where are her parents then?"

"With the murderer, most likely. There's no place to dumb a body around this area, no garbage cans big enough, no landfill or dump, the Thames isn't too far away but it's far enough that you wouldn't want to drag a body that distance," Sherlock rationalized. "He shot her to get them to go with him. He could've poisoned them though, just like he poisoned the others. Why didn't he just do that?"

John scratched his head. "He broke in this time?"

"No, the door wasn't kicked open or anything. He was invited in once again, but how? You wouldn't invite someone in you didn't know…"

John sighed. "What if… he faked an injury? If someone was hurt, you'd probably have them come inside so you could help them, if possible. If not, then you could've just dialed for help."

Sherlock mulled this over in his head, for one reason or another, he didn't want to go into his Mind Palace; it seemed like he was preferring to just bounce ideas off of John instead. "Good job, John… that's… good thinking. He obviously knew the people next door because he baked them something. He didn't know these people though so he had to get in somehow. He had to fake an injury."

John nodded and bit his lip before he walked throughout the rest of the house and looked around, leaving Sherlock alone to do what he had to do. He saw nothing suspicious or out of place until he came into the kitchen. He looked at the table and saw two words that were obviously written in blood: **Get Sherlock**.

So it was Moriarty… or it could be someone else who knew Sherlock but this was the same message Moriarty had used before after he had cracked open all the safes in London. It had to be him. "Sherlock? I think you should take a look at this."

Sherlock ripped his eyes away from the room before he walked into the kitchen. "You find something, John?" he asked eagerly. He stopped when he saw the words. Just to make sure that it was blood, he gently touched the tip of his pinkie finger to the S in his name and winced as he tasted the metallic flavored blood. "I wonder whose blood it is though. Maybe the wife wasn't cooperating with him and he needed to scare the husband…"

"Is that what you would do?" John asked, not expecting a response and wasn't surprised when he didn't receive one. He had just asked it to be difficult because he was beginning to lose his patience with how matter-of-fact Sherlock was being during this situation.

"Lestrade! Get back in here!" Sherlock called to Greg.

"What the hell is it?" He yelled back, entering the house again. He walked over towards Sherlock. "What?"

"Have you looked at this yet?"

Greg looked at him impatiently and nodded. "Of course we've bloody looked at it, Sherlock! Do you really think that we could miss something like this?"

"Well with your forensic team's incompetence, I wouldn't put it past you. What do you make of it? Whose blood do you think it is?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well obviously that's the first thing I did when I saw it, get in touch with you. I believe it's the girl's blood, and this has to be Moriarty up to his old tricks once again. All we need to do is find him again," Greg replied, looking between John and Sherlock.

"Interesting; you think it's the girl's blood…"

"And why is that so interesting? Isn't it obviously though? If it was the wife's blood, why didn't it leave a trail going from the kitchen to the front door?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock paused and then licked his lips, looking perplexed. John felt like he could read his mind: 'Why didn't I think of that?' Sherlock sighed and nodded. "You're right…"

Greg looked at him with astonishment. "I am?"

Sherlock looked back at him. "You are. If it was the wife's, she'd have left a trail of blood. He had to be dragging her to his car. No trails. No sign of residue either, which means he didn't clean up any spots left behind. It must be the girl's blood."

Greg crossed his arms in front of him. "Well there you are then, you know everything we know now, so calling you was pretty much pointless, wasn't it?"

Sherlock smirked now. "Not pointless. Smart. I didn't tell you yet what I found out about what happened here. Moriarty faked an injury so these nice Samaritans would let him inside. Once he was inside, he threatened them, and their daughter had been hiding under a bed or in a closet he hadn't bothered to check. The parents were putting up some resistance to go where Moriarty wanted them to, so he shot the girl to prove a point, so the parents would be scared enough to cooperate with him."

Lestrade looked slightly impressed with Sherlock's summary of events. "Well, thanks for all that but why would he hit two flats right next to each other?"

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip and narrowed his eyes in thought. "Moriarty's getting desperate to prove a point to me. He chose older victims this time, and he chose to kidnap the parents instead of just kill them. He's holding them ransom for me. He wants to have a chat with me…"

John sucked in a breath and rubbed his eyes, not liking where this was going to lead. Anything with Moriarty always spelled trouble, and now with kidnapped people, what if this serial killer tried to hurt Sherlock? That was a pain that he didn't think he could even handle. That was a thought he dared not think about at all.


	5. Reciprocated Love

Chapter Five: Reciprocated Love

.o.  
.o.  
.o.

John sat across from Sherlock who sat on the brown leather couch, silently smoking another cigarette. Even though his body was there, his eyes were somewhere else and he yearned to know what his companion was thinking.

"Shouldn't we… go find Moriarty before he kills or kidnaps again?" John forced himself to ask after several moments of more silence.

Sherlock didn't respond right away but his eyes darted towards John and looked at him carefully, as if he was realizing that they were still at the flat. "Not quite yet. We have no idea where he's holding out; we only know that he's killing on Lollard Street. I'm just as eager to find him as well, John. We need to wait until he contacts us first."

John felt antsy and unaccomplished. All they had done was find out how the first two victims had been murdered and who the killer was. It seemed like a great accomplishment but John knew that Sherlock wouldn't be fully satisfied until he caught Moriarty and got to see him face to face. John could see the frustration on his face. "We're going to catch him. You know that right, right?"

Sherlock smiled softly, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. "How many times have we almost caught him and then somehow he was able to get away. Oh, let's also not forget that one time we actually had him standing trial and he was found not guilty. Damn! This is so aggravating. CALL!"

John didn't jump at his friend's sudden yell towards his phone. He was used to this sort of behavior from Sherlock. He watched as he took a long drag from his cigarette and then turned his head to look out the window. He sighed and chewed on his bottom lip before John looked back down at his lap. "What if he kills the people he kidnapped, Sherlock?"

Sherlock continued to stare out the window, smoking. "What if he does…? It doesn't bring me any closer to Moriarty!"

John raised his eyebrows and looked disappointedly at Sherlock, at a loss for words. "Sherlock… he killed a little girl he didn't even have to kill! I understand that you have difficulty feeling sympathy towards someone who you didn't know, but then again…" John trailed off, biting his tongue to resist ending his sentence with a jibe towards Sherlock, knowing he really couldn't understand feeling sympathy. He rubbed his forehead and then shook his head.

Sherlock looked back at him with curious eyes and something that might have represented a sort of sadness. "I apologize, John," he replied curtly. "I am aware of your sympathies towards the murdered girl and you're right; perhaps I was a bit too harsh with my previous statement. Of course I care if the kidnapped couple were murdered. I'm just… so frustrated not being able to go out there and do something. Anything…"

"I understand, Sherlock. We just have to play the waiting game now. Moriarty has your number. He knows how to get in touch. We need to do something in the meantime." John stated, needing to get both of their minds off of the case at hand.

Sherlock sighed heavily and rapped his fingers on the arm of the couch impatiently. "What do you suggest? Cluedo?"

John instantly shook his head. "Ah, no. Let's not even go there. Let's go get a bite to eat next door."

Sherlock shook his head and took another drag of his cigarette before he knocked off the excess ash on the end into an ashtray. "Not hungry."

"You need to eat, Sherlock! We both need to. I hate when you get like this! It's like you're on a hunger strike until you solve the case," John threw his arms up.

His friend cocked his head to the side and shrugged. "Make something here. I need to think about the case some more."

John stood up and put his coat on. "Fine, then You can stay here and obsess about the case but I'm going to get a bite to eat next door. I'll be back in a few." When he didn't get any response from Sherlock, he left the flat and left Sherlock alone with only his violin and Mind Palace to keep him company.

Sherlock rapped harder on the couch after his friend left but he continued to think about Moriarty's motive for the murders and the now recent kidnappings. He was focusing on different possibilities when his thoughts were interrupted by a ring from the doorbell downstairs.

"Go away!" Sherlock called down as loud as he could, unaware if the person outside could hear him or not but he really didn't care if they did or not; just yelling the order felt good.

He was surprised, however, when he heard a rapping on the door. The knocking set his nerves on fire and he couldn't stop the anger in his voice when he yelled again. "GO AWAY, I SAID!"

The person on the other side ignored him and opened the door before walking inside, her eyebrows raised in disbelief.

"I tried ringing first…"

Sherlock looked the visitor up and down, taking her whole appearance in. He smirked slightly but there was also something dark in it. "John isn't here at the moment."

She looked at him warily. "How do you know I was looking for him?"

"For one, you're wearing the same vanilla scented perfume John came home with on his clothes yesterday morning. He had the same shade of red lipstick on his neck as you're wearing now, and you're the only woman that I know of that he's had… dealings with," Sherlock explained, forcing himself to be as nice as he could for John's sake. "Another thing that gave you away is that you glanced around before you entered, telling me that it's not a detective you're looking for, but the doctor."

She smiled and walked inside the flat further. "You must be the infamous Sherlock Holmes that he's told me nothing about. I've heard impressive things about you from the telly and in the paper though..."

Sherlock looked at her neutrally. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear. I've heard that you and John got along quite nicely. Are you always that welcoming towards men you meet in the pub or is it just him?"

Her smile didn't falter. "John's a very brilliant man. He's smart and he knows what he likes."

Sherlock smiled but it was more out of amusement than genuine friendliness. "You think he likes you?"

"Where is John, by the way?" Mary asked, changing the subject and starting to look a bit uncomfortable.

Sherlock stood up and walked towards her. "Out. From the way you never called John the next day after your tryst, I can only assume that you weren't serious about actually dating him. I must ask you why you're suddenly taking an interest in him now?"

She was looking a bit apprehensive but she made herself stand up straighter and met his eyes. "I don't believe that's any of your business, Mr. Holmes. Just because John and I aren't serious about each other, doesn't mean we can't be friends. I get lonely sometimes… and I can tell that he gets lonely as well."

Sherlock's smile turned into disgust. "He's not lonely anymore, so I suggest you call another man to the dangerous depths of your islands, you siren…"

Mary looked at him in surprise and it was at that moment when John entered, freezing when he saw Mary and Sherlock standing within inches from each other. It was obvious he hadn't heard what John said to her by the look on his face.

"Mary! What are you doing here?"

Mary turned around and put on a smile for John, not showing any evidence of Sherlock getting to her. "I came by to see you, silly! I wanted to see if maybe we could have some tea and biscuits at my place sometime."

Sherlock watched as Mary gently grabbed John's lapel of his shirt and pulled him in closer towards her before she planted a kiss on his jaw. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his side, forgetting he still was holding the cigarette between his fingers. He cursed and then picked the fallen soldier off the floor before he dabbed it into the ashtray, standing up again. He nursed the burn on the back of his hand as he watched them, trying not to throw a fit even though anger had started to brew within him.

John could feel Sherlock's eyes behind him, burning a hole through both himself and Mary. He felt Mary's warm lips on his skin and chuckled nervously before he gently pulled her away from him. "That… sounds tempting but… I'm afraid I must politely decline."

Mary was looking confused now. She glanced behind John at Sherlock and then looked back at John before she lowered her voice. "I thought we were having a nice time? What happened?"

John licked his lips, hating to be the one to break the news and felt stubbornly awkward. "We were, we did… but I can't do that anymore with you, Mary. I'm… very sorry. I'm sort of… seeing someone else now."

Even though he knew John couldn't see, Sherlock was pursing his lips in almost a coy satisfaction at her utter disappointment.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, an obvious habit in her nervousness, Sherlock observed silently. She smiled sadly at John but nodded in understanding. "I-I see… well, I'm sorry for being a fool then. I'll… I'll just be going then," Mary stammered as she started to head towards the door.

Sherlock looked down, making a weak attempt to give them a bit of emotional privacy but he couldn't tear his eyes away from them. John reached over and grabbed Mary's arm gently and there was a moment when Sherlock saw him affectionately caress her skin with his thumb. His stomach dropped and he turned away from them now, unable to watch their reactions any more.

"Mary, wait. I would still very much like to be friends, if that's possible…" John searched her eyes.

She nodded and gave him a weak smile. "Of course, John. We're friends… I'm sorry, I really need to go now. I-I have an appointment on the other side of the city."

John let her go and then turned back to face Sherlock once he heard the door close. He could only see Sherlock's broad shoulders and his slender back. "I'm… sorry about that, Sherlock. I really hadn't expected her to visit here."

Sherlock swallowed hard and when he turned around John saw something he hadn't expected to see in his grey stormy eyes. John could see hurt and pain swimming in them and this took him by surprise, but it also made his stomach feel heavy as lead. "It's… fine, John. I only have one question, if I may ask it."

John nodded, feeling his blood freezing in his veins and his companion's visible vulnerability. "Of course, go ahead."

Sherlock looked down at the floor before he looked back up at John, forcing himself to look into his eyes. "Are we… really together now, or… are you seeing the both of us, or just her? I must know because I'm tired of you being part of a love triangle."

The question made John feel overcome a sadness he didn't know he could feel. Sherlock was asking a serious question and it pained him to see Sherlock feel so vulnerable right now. His friend really didn't understand how relationships worked. He had been right there when John had told Mary he couldn't see her anymore and somehow, this went over Sherlock's head. He felt overcome with guilt now and he sighed inwardly, running a hand through his hair before looking back at him.

"It's just you and me, Sherlock, just as it's supposed to be," John answered surely, searching Sherlock's face.

"Right then," he cleared his throat. "Good… very good," Sherlock couldn't suppress his genuine smile now as he nodded in understanding. "Thank you, John."

"For what? I believe I'm the one who made a mess of things."

Sherlock smirked and shook his head. "You had the choice to choose her over me. She came back here, asking to be with you again and you denied her. You chose me. Why?"

John smiled now and walked closer to Sherlock. "Because we connect more than I've ever connected with another person. We get each other and although you do manage to mystify me sometimes, Sherlock, I wouldn't want to be with anyone else in the world. I only felt something for her that one night because I was rejected by you and I just wanted to feel loved by someone. I love you, Sherlock… only you."

Sherlock let out a hearty laugh now, perhaps out of sheer relief. He moved closer towards John and once his laugh dissipated, hesitation and fear spread across his features. His hands shook as they made their way towards John's face, one on either side of it and then he leaned in and rested his forehead against his partner's, closing his eyes.

John felt his heart race and his spirit lift, never having seen Sherlock act so affectionately towards someone else before but he was glad that it was him. He let their heads rest gently against each other's before he smiled in relief too.

"Do you love me too, Sherlock?" He finally asked, in a mere whisper. John knew there was a possibility Sherlock still wouldn't be able to answer it but he just wanted to hear the words come out of his mouth anyway.

"Yes, John… after feeling a terrible bout of jealousy when that woman was here and touching you, I believe that I do love you, John…" Sherlock confessed, smiling softly before he winked.

John chuckled now and placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, gently caressing the fabric that separated their bodies. He closed his eyes now and finally forced himself to move away from Sherlock, causing his friend to look fearful and confused now.

"What is it? Did I do something wrong?"

John shook his head. "No, Sherlock. You didn't do anything wrong. Promise. Come on, eat with me now. I'll put the kettle on."

Sherlock nodded in agreement and walked into the kitchen before he reached inside the bag and pulled out its contents of bacon, sausages, and scrambled eggs. He separated the food, letting John have more than himself and then stood against the counter, watching as John poured the boiling water into two cups.

The two of them ate in a comfortable silence and drank their tea in occasional whispers and laughs.

"Can you imagine Lestrade's face if he knew about us?" Sherlock laughed heartily before he wiped his mouth with a napkin.

John chuckled and grinned at the imagined look of shock plastered on the Detective Inspector's face. "He would most definitely be surprised, but… perhaps he'd be satisfied that the great Sherlock Holmes is able to feel love and affection for another human being."

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. "I suppose he would…"

Then, the familiar chime of a text message echoed in the room. Sherlock took his phone out of his pants pocket and glanced down to read it.

_Your assistance is required once again. Bring Watson with you and come to Gibson Road, apartment 27 – DI Lestrade_

Sherlock stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over and startling John. "Grab your coat, John! It's Lestrade. We need to go to Gibson Road, it's right off of Lollard Street…"

John pushed his chair back and stood up before he hurried over and grabbed his coat. "What's happened?"

Sherlock glanced over at him before he pocketed the phone. "There's been another murder."


	6. Distractions

**Thank you for the reviews! You're awesome!**

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Chapter Six: Distractions

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John could feel Sherlock's sick sense of excitement pumping through him like wildfire as they hailed a cab and soon arrived on Gibson Road. Once they arrived there, Sherlock looked around the scene in disgust, having already spotted Donovan and Anderson outside talking to Lestrade. John gently ushered Sherlock into apartment 27 and looked around the flat.

There were two deceased persons on the living room couch, their bodies positioned as if they were sitting. John looked and noticed a trail of blood ran from one of the bedrooms in the hallway and into the kitchen, and there was a second trail from the front door that lead towards the living room, and a third trail that made its way from the chair in the living room to the hallway. Sherlock felt dizzy at the thick smell of iron in the house. He coughed and then put his mouth against his sleeve and looked around, taking all of it in. He started into the living room and looked at the couches opposite from each other, a coffee table diving them.

"He was talking to them," Sherlock spoke, matter-of-factly, looking from where the husband and wife both sat next to each other with stab wounds in both their chests. He glanced back to the opposite couch and pulled out his miniature magnifying glass and knelt down, looking for any clues.

John watched him silently but also took in his surroundings. There was something different about this one, he just couldn't put his finger on it. He swallowed hard to stop himself from gagging at the strong penny smell in the house.

"Why stab them though? He shot the girl in the last flat, and poisoned the ones in the first… why suddenly use a knife?" John asked, suddenly remembering his friend had said something.

Sherlock said nothing for several minutes, standing up again and then heading down the hall towards the room. He was careful to avoid the bloody trail as he entered and saw it stopped suddenly. He looked from the hallway to the door in thought. "He's getting scared. He's… panicking. He felt safe performing the first murder because it was just poison, and he didn't think it could be linked to him. The second one was where he started to kidnap his victims. The girl was a mistake. He hadn't meant to kill her after all…" Sherlock muttered, the wheels spinning in his head.

John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Wait, I thought you said that he needed the parents of the girl to cooperate with him, and that's why he shot her?"

Sherlock wet his lips and cocked his head slightly. "I was… wrong. He panicked. Moriarty didn't know there was a child at all. He planned incorrectly, thinking it was just the parents. The girl must have heard the commotion, gotten out of bed and walked in on him with her parents. He shot her by mistake…"

"How do you know that, though? He could've meant to kill her, Sherlock…"

His eyes were still clouded over in thought. "Children are great bargaining chips for parents but do you see a child around in this house, John? This is a child's room. He wants to kidnap the children. He accidentally killed the first one in the last flat, but he would've taken her if she hadn't surprised him. He definitely took this one though…"

It was amazing to John that Sherlock could figure out an entire crime scene so detailed that it seemed like a movie. He had to admit, he never stopped being impressed when his partner in both love and crime was able to figure things like this out. "What does he want with these people though? Two adults and a child are just extra baggage for him to carry around."

Sherlock followed the trail back to the kitchen where the smell seemed to intensify. He looked around just as Lestrade and his motley crew came inside. He stopped when he saw them and sighed in irritation. "Must you be here when I am?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and scoffed. "You wouldn't even be here if I hadn't told you about it! You're welcome, by the way…"

"Funny, I don't recall even thanking you, Lestrade… did you three contaminate the scene with your grubby little fingerprints already? Where's the knife he used to stab the parents? And the stuffed animal the child dropped?"

"How do you know there was a child's stuffed animal?" Donovan asked Sherlock with contempt and suspicion in her eyes.

Sherlock sighed in rolled his eyes in exasperation. "There's a significant print in the blood by the child's room, a print that looks like the outline of fur and a significant small handprint, like the one belonging to a stuffed animal. It really isn't that difficult to figure it out. Now where are they?" He demanded impatiently.

"There were none…" Anderson answered for both detectives.

Sherlock gave him a skeptical look. "That's ridiculous, Anderson. Really, you must warn others when you're about to open your mouth and say something incredibly stupid!"

"He's right, Sherlock!" Lestrade cut in. "We didn't find anything. No stuffed animals, no murder weapon... we don't know where they are but they're not here."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glanced over at John before he looked back at the trail of blood. "That… is very interesting indeed…"

"I suppose, but you'll forgive us if we're more concerned about whose blood is trailing from the child's room to the front door…"

"It's Moriarty's," Sherlock answered simply, waving off the Detective Inspector's ignorance.

The three of them looked up and looked from John to Sherlock. "What? How could you possibly know that? He could've stabbed the child for all we know and just taken them with him…"

Sherlock shook his head. "He wouldn't have taken the child with him if he had stabbed him, she, it first – "

John noticed a family picture framed on the table in the living room and felt his heart sink when he noticed it was a little girl between her parents, barely even seven years old. "Umm… Sherlock?"

"Oh so we're just going to refer to them as he slash she slash it now? For God's sake, Sherlock! It's someone's child!" Lestrade yelled in frustration.

"Sherlock?" John tried again.

"It's a child, Lestrade! What difference does it even make if it's a boy or a girl or a damn alien? It's missing!" Sherlock yelled back.

"Sherlock!" John roared over him now before he walked over and showed him the picture. "It's their daughter. He shot a girl at the last house, remember?"

A strange look flickered in his companion's eyes and he was quiet for awhile before he knitted his eyebrows together in thought once again. "Why though? If he had known there was a girl at the last one, he would've taken her like he took this one… but why them? Why is he only hitting houses with parents who have a single daughter?"

"Maybe it's nothing," Lestrade offered. "Maybe it's just a coincidence…"

Sherlock looked down at him. "Please, Lestrade. You know what I think about coincidences. The universe is rarely so lazy… but it still doesn't make sense. The first family didn't even have any children…"

John found Sherlock's confusion almost endearing; there was something human about it. He thought about this fact too. "Maybe… maybe they did. Maybe… Moriarty already has her?"

Sherlock caressed his thumb against the rest of his fingers, concentrating. "John, you're brilliant…"

"He is?" Anderson asked.

"He is?" Lestrade also asked, obviously dumbfounded.

"I am?" John asked as well, rarely hearing those three words come out of Sherlock's mouth.

"You are," he stated, still doing the motions with his fingers out to his side. "He's obviously keeping them somewhere out of sight, the children are most likely tied up but… flat 70 must have injured him somehow, possibly trying to escape. That must have happened before he came here…"

John caught on to what Sherlock was talking about, assuming that 'flat 70' was referring to the victims of the second murder. Either the other detectives gave up or also started assuming the same thing since they kept their silence. "Why didn't Moriarty go to hospital if his injury was serious enough to leave a trail? Wouldn't someone have found the trail and start to follow it?"

Sherlock glanced over at John. "Well it's not exactly as if he could've gone to the hospital, could he? He's England's most wanted man. And to answer your second question, it rained last night, remember? The rain washed away the trail, and Moriarty knew it would do that so he wasn't afraid of being found out."

John turned to him now. "Sherlock, you know the disguises and identities Moriarty has had. He could've just as easily formed a new one, a new face, a new name. He could've gone to hospital and gotten treated, but he didn't."

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows in confusion now and looked away from John, realizing that what his companion said was indeed true. Moriarty had been able to fool Molly with his look, name and disguise. Although she might not have been very bright, she was still a reasonably intelligent woman. As with anyone though, love could've blinded her to the truth. He suddenly felt frustrated; why hadn't he taken in that possibility? His nemesis could've found a way to get treatment for his wound but instead he chose to commit two more murders and kidnap a young girl.

"Well I don't believe it! Sherlock Holmes is slipping…" Donovan smirked to herself.

John gave her a glare that he knew she didn't see but it felt good to give anyway. He looked back at Sherlock was still looking away, apparently trying to focus on what was going on.

The four of them stood there in silence, watching Sherlock before Anderson walked behind the kitchen counter and cleared his throat. "Detective Inspector Lestrade? You might want to take a look at this…"

Lestrade moved over to the counter and then looked over at the consulting detective. "Sherlock! Come look at this, will you?"

Sherlock was still in his daze but John gently elbowed his friend to refocus his attention on new evidence. When he looked at him, John nodded over to the kitchen counter in silent answer. Sherlock walked over and saw a note with a bunch of letters written on it.

**JHSWHLEPMHET AORMOIYT EMSITI NURNIOTUN **

"It's an anagram for something, obviously," Sherlock replied distantly, his eyes already trying to unscramble the letters.

Lestrade grabbed the note and handed it to Sherlock who took it with surprise. "Take that back to your flat and see if you can figure it out then. Get a hold of me when you do."

Sherlock simply nodded in understanding after taking the encrypted paper, to much of John's amazement. No jibes, no smart remarks about how Lestrade couldn't do his job properly. No, it seemed like it was a gesture of respect. Then again, maybe it was just Sherlock's eagerness to solve yet another puzzle.

They watched as Lestrade motioned for his forensic team to follow him back outside to give Sherlock a moment and once they were gone, John turned to his friend.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

He looked down from the paper to John and nodded. "Yes, John. I'm fine. There's nothing important to keep looking for. I think our next plan of action is to figure this out. Let's go, shall we?"

John nodded in agreement and followed Sherlock into the back of another cab and watched him as Sherlock's lips seemed preoccupied in the puzzle. He leaned forward to the driver. "221 Baker Street, please."

He felt the familiar jolt as the cab started to drive back to their flat. He wanted to talk to Sherlock but he didn't want to interrupt his thinking process. Once they arrived there, he thought for sure he'd have to tug his partner out of the cab but Sherlock instantly ducked out of the cab before he headed inside, the paper still in his hand and his mind still reeling. John was waiting for him to trip on the stairs as they headed up them but Sherlock seemed was careful about his movements. He knew for sure that if he was thinking about something else and were trying to go back up a flight of stairs, he'd trip and fall over himself for sure, probably break something along the way.

Sherlock didn't say a word until they entered their shared flat and then he seemed to deem it okay to talk freely to John. "Why? Why do you think he's doing this? And why the hell didn't I remember about him being able to change identities?"

John closed the door turned to him. "Who knows why he does half the things he does?" he asked rhetorically, choosing to ignore Sherlock's last question.

"No! No, John… we know why Moriarty does the things he does! He's not a mystery, not like he thinks he is," Sherlock spoke a mile a minute. "He wants us to think he has no motive but he always does, even the smallest one. He wants me to know he's not finished killing people and he'll kill the most innocent people if he has to. He's already proven that; so far his victims have either been the somewhat elderly or very young. But why has he killed them? How are these people connected to each other?"

John could tell Sherlock was trying to make the connections and figure everything out so he tried to keep his talking to a minimum, wanting to help his companion. "They all had daughters?" he attempted, walking into the kitchen to start the kettle for tea.

"Yes, of course…obviously, there's that but there must be something else. There are at least 740,000 daughters in the United Kingdom, so why these people? They live within minutes of each other. They all have two parents or grandparents that live with them. They children have no siblings. Why would Moriarty go after these people?"

John could tell he was growing increasingly frustrated and anguished about the case, trying to piece everything together. At the moment it seemed like Sherlock was able to make some puzzle pieces fit smoothly but there were others he appeared to be trying to shove and jam them into place, forcing them to fit his theories with glue. He waited for the kettle to heat up as he walked back over to Sherlock and stood close to him, looking into his eyes.

"You'll figure this out, Sherlock. You always do…" John declared with confidence, smiling softly at him.

Sherlock smiled meekly back but his eyes were drowning with disappointment at himself. "What if I can't?"

John felt his heart skip a beat. It was unlike Sherlock to ever question his abilities and it almost scared him to hear the question come out between his lips. He just shook his head. "You're Sherlock Holmes. You'll solve it. We'll figure this out. It's Moriarty. Like you said, he's not a total mystery or anything. Maybe you should try and figure out that anagram."

Sherlock rubbed his temples and nodded. "I will; I have to… Are you making tea?"

"Yup. Would you like some?" John offered, walking back into the kitchen.

"Yes… please. Tea is the cure for everything." Sherlock chewed on his lip and watched as John grabbed a mug from the cupboard and threw a teabag inside of it just as the kettle began to scream.

John poured the hot water over the bags in both their mugs and glanced over at him, smiling. He handed him his tea and followed him back into the living room, sitting down beside him on the couch. Sherlock set the paper down on the coffee table and wrapped his hands around the warm mug.

"Sherlock, do you think this is this how it's going to be for the rest of our lives?" John asked suddenly, quietly.

Sherlock looked from the paper up at John and looked at him with uncertain eyes. "It seems likely, at the pace we're going. There's plenty of crimes to be solved and as long as Lestrade cannot figure out the simple enough details and Anderson has no brain in his head, it appears we could be solving these cases for a good amount of time. Why do you ask, John?"

He sighed and ran both his hands through his hair, shaking his head. He didn't trust his voice to speak the truth, which was well enough since Sherlock knew everything in his head because he spoke again.

"You don't want to do this forever," Sherlock stated instead of questioned. "I admit, these cases can be trying, especially the Moriarty ones, but… at the end of the day, we still save more people than are killed."

John looked up at him now. "That doesn't matter to you though, Sherlock. You don't need to pretend for my sake."

"John, I know it matters to you, and if it matters to you then it matters to me," he replied softly.

This was probably the closest John was going to get Sherlock to admit that he cared about him or people in general. "People still die though, before we can get to them."

Sherlock sat back on the couch and sighed. "People die no matter what, with or without our help. We can't help every single person, only the ones in the cases that drop on our laps. I understand that you still have nightmares from your time in Afghanistan but you know better than anyone that not everyone can be saved."

John nodded slowly, taking this in and then squinting at Sherlock with interest. "How did you know I have nightmares about my time there?"

"You scream sometimes, at night. You cry out, rather…" Sherlock answered, his voice attempting to remain cold and distant but it was faltering. "You yell about your patients being wounded and bombs alongside of roads, gunfire. I get up sometimes to wake you up out of it but I think you wake yourself up."

John pondered this for a while and felt an embarrassment he couldn't fully acknowledge. "I-I'm… sorry, I didn't know it woke you up. I can… find another place to live or… something?" he offered awkwardly.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. How on earth would I be able to kiss you if you lived somewhere else?"

John looked back at Sherlock who was smirking slightly. He chuckled now and felt a warmth fill him when Sherlock also let out a soft laugh that somehow relaxed him. He took a sip of his tea and looked down at the paper on the table.

"Let's not focus on this right now, is that okay? Maybe later, but… I get how important this is and I realize it could be the next possible clue but… I just want to spend time with you, Sherlock. Not doing a case, not finding dead bodies or creepy anagrams… or blood trails. I just want – "

John was cut off by surprise when Sherlock leaned in and pressed his warm lips to John's tea-kissed ones. He was taken aback by his sudden movements but he didn't pull away. He set his tea on the coffee table and saw Sherlock do the same with his own, skillfully, hardly even looking at where he had placed it.

Sherlock placed his hands on John's face now; his thumbs were gently tracing the outline of John's hard jaw but they were no longer shaking like the first time he had done this. The long fingers moved and caressed confidently now, without hesitation. He kissed John deeper and let their tongues dance upon the others' tongue. John relaxed in Sherlock's embrace and moved with him, grateful that his partner had silently agreed with him about not focusing on the case at this moment.

Their arms found each other's legs and it wasn't long before shoes, socks, trousers and jumpers all came off, their clothes lazily lounging on the couch and coffee table, John and Sherlock both intertwined in each other's arms.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

**.o.o.**

John found himself sweaty and panting, relaxing against Sherlock's firm, pale chest, closing his eyes as he softly stroked John's hair and neck. They lay there, sipping their now cold tea occasionally.

"We need to make fresh tea, I believe. This just won't do…"

John nodded against him, relaxed. "It's absolutely disgraceful. Shall I go make more then?" he asked, starting to stand up on the couch.

"No, I don't believe you shall!" Sherlock grabbed John's leg playfully and pulled him back down, causing the two of them to burst into laughter now, smiles plastered on each of their faces.

They laughed against each other until tears brimmed their eyes and their stomachs hurt. Finally, Sherlock was the one who stood up and took their forgotten cups out to the kitchen, his underwear back on.

John looked at him with admiration and sighed contently, his smile still visible. How did he get so lucky to have Sherlock? True, not many people liked or respected Sherlock Holmes but that was only because they didn't have the patience or tolerance to get to know him, truly. He had opened up in ways his own self hadn't even realized, but in ways only John saw.

Sherlock came back with fresh, warm cups of tea and handed John his carefully as he held his own in his large palm.

"Thank you…"

"Mmhmm…" Sherlock replied, getting the tussled dark curls out of his eyes before he looked over at John and smirked. "Oh John Watson… you are really something else."

"Am I a good something or a bad something?"

Sherlock grinned now and made a mischievous sound that came somewhere from deep in his throat. "Both, John… no one can make me laugh or smile like you can, that's for sure. Like that time when we were in Buckingham Palace and I was just in a sheet…"

John started to laugh again, the memories flooding back to him. "A-And… and we were asking about the Queen, and… a-and Mycroft showed up…" he stammered, a grin plastered on his face.

Sherlock laughed throatily again and smiled like the Cheshire cat. "Ah yes… he always has such impeccable timing, my dear brother mine does."

John nodded and soon was able to get a hold of his laughter. They both sat in a comfortable silence for several minutes, sipping their tea. He looked over at Sherlock. "You're amazing, Sherlock. I had my doubts at first but… you've really changed my life, made me become a better person so… you know, thank you for that."

Sherlock smiled warmly at him but there was something unreadable in his eyes. "You're welcome, John." He swallowed hard and then looked down at his hands before he put his pants back on, but left his shirt off. "Back to the case then!" he suddenly exclaimed, grabbing the piece of paper with the anagram on it.

John felt his stomach contract as he watched him and then nodded once before he started to slip his clothes back on. "Back to the case," he repeated, half-heartedly.

He stood up and grabbed their empty cups of tea before taking them into the kitchen. He glanced at his partner, watching him look from his phone to the paper and then finally looked back at the sink as he washed the mugs. It occurred then to John that they could have the most perfect moment together, and then have it all slip away again when Sherlock decided it was time to work on his puzzles. This was how it would always be like for them.

Sherlock Holmes would always be distracted by something. It worried John that maybe he might be that something one day, and then his best friend would decide it was time to move on. He took a deep breath and focused on rinsing out the mugs, mentally trying to force that thought out of his mind but to no avail; the more he thought about this very real possibility, the more sick he started to feel until he could stand it no longer.

He set the clean mugs back in the cupboard and made a beeline for his bedroom, letting himself lay on his bed, his back towards the door.


	7. Puzzles To Solve

**Thank you so much, anonymous reader! I'm not a genius but you're very sweet! I'm so glad you like it! I hope to get more reviews from you, my dear anon! **

**I know this chapter is pretty short but I felt I had to stop it there. I'll try and make a longer chapter for you all in the next one. **

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Chapter Seven: Puzzles To Solve

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It was nearly four in the morning when Sherlock finally glanced up at the clock on the fireplace mantle, forcing himself out of his Mind Palace reverie. He replayed the pleasant afternoon he had had with his beloved John, but then shook himself out of that too; he had work to do for their case. He needed to focus on that.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to the large writing desk they shared, papers and folders piled on top of it. He reached into one of the drawers and pulled out three nicotine patches. He slapped them on his forearm and then walked over to lay down on the couch. It would be less dangerous if Sherlock fell asleep with these on than holding an actual cigarette. He closed his eyes as he let the traces of nicotine run through him, focusing on the letters from the paper.

**JHSWLEPMHET AORMOIYT EMSITI NURNIOTUN**

He mentally rearranged the letters in his head, trying to make sense of Moriarty's strange anagram.

**JHSW LEPT HEM PORT YET TURN TORN ARM **

**ARTERY LEFT LEW SEWN SLEPT **

He very faintly heard John's voice as he swiped the letters back and forth with his fingers in the air.

"Sherlock? I called you like five times!"

**JUST TURN AROUN**

"Turn around and look at me, for God's sake, Sherlock! Talk to me…"

**WEEP STILL ME **

**RUN JOHN**

**HELP HIM JOHN**

"Sherlock! Fine, alright then… I'm going out…"

Sherlock's heart and mind were both racing in his body as he tried to focus on the letters, absentmindedly waving his friend away so he could concentrate better. He only faintly heard the sound of the door slam before his brain went back quickly to the letters again.

**MORIARTY SLEEPS NO MORE**

**JOHN IS POST MORTEM **

**TURN TO JOHN HOLMES**

**TURN TO JOHN, HOLMES**

Sherlock shook his head and sighed heavily before he waved the letters away and then opened his eyes to see the apartment around him. He cocked his head slightly, listening closely for any sign of movement.

"John?" He called out, wondering if he had only imagined his best and only friend had left. He had been so deep into his Mind Palace that half the time he wasn't even aware of what was going on around him. Then again, that was the whole point.

When he got no answer back, he growled in frustration with himself and tried to refocus on the anagram. He glanced down at the tangible piece of paper to concentrate again and then closed his eyes.

**HELPTHEM JOHN **

He placed the words in the corner with his finger in his mind now and spread out the other letters to focus on one group.

**AORMOIYT **

**MORT**

**TRAM**

**ARM**

Finally he had enough. He angrily cleared the whole set of letters away with his palm and opened his eyes, making sure not to 'delete' it in his head. He sighed heavily and stood up before he walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He made himself a cup of tea and then started back into the living room, walking over to his violin but stopped when he heard the sound of his phone.

He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it.

_Have you figured out my little puzzle yet, Sherlock? – M_

An unsavory thought now crossed his mind. That's how his brother usually signed his messages, and it would be just like Mycroft to create this puzzle for him to solve. His brother knew distasteful people. He knew Moriarty. Sherlock's insides felt sick but at the same time, he needed straight answers. He didn't want to be wasting his time figuring out an anagram if it was Mycroft who had set all of this up for him to solve. It wasn't such a giant leap to even consider his own brother could be a murderer. He was rich enough, he could hire others to kill these people just to stop the boredom Sherlock might feel. It was low, but it would be a successful attempt to stop his little brother from turning back to his other addictions that proved more self-destructive.

Sherlock quickly showered and changed his clothes before he pulled on his shoes, put his long, black jacket on and hurried out the door, hailing a cab and ordering the driver to head towards Pall Mall.

When he got there, Sherlock jumped out of the cab, nearly forgetting to pay the driver before he ran past the guards and straight up the stairs of the large building. He could hear footsteps chasing him but he knew exactly where Mycroft would be.

"Hey! Get back here!"

"You can't go in there, sir!"

Sherlock ignored them as his long legs carried him to the room his brother was in. He shoved the doors open forcefully.

"Sherlock! What on earth are you doing here…?" his brother greeted him, standing up in surprise.

Sherlock shoved the phone message in Mycroft's face eagerly, his eyes frantic with anticipation. "Is this you? Did you send me this message?"

Mycroft motioned for the guards to stand down from his brother but remain inside before he looked closely at the message and looked back at Sherlock with confused eyes. "No, Sherlock. I did not send you such a message…"

Sherlock looked off to the side, not entirely convinced before he looked back at Mycroft. "You would, though. It would be just like you to give me a puzzle to solve if you saw me slipping back into old habits. Let me see your phone, Mycroft, right now!"

His older brother looked at him with disbelief as he shook his head. "I think not!"

Sherlock held out his hand, motioning for Mycroft to place it in his hand. "Please! I'm not interested in anything else you might have on there! I just need to make sure it's not you! Give it to me!" he insisted, a tone of desperation laced in his voice.

Mycroft sighed in exasperation and reluctantly handed Sherlock his phone. Once in his hands, Sherlock's eyes darted through it.

_UK Stocks Drop to a Record Low_

_3 Murders in 3 Days: Is There a Connection?_

_5 Messages from PM _

_4 Messages from Sherlock_

Sherlock opened up the messages from himself, making sure Mycroft hadn't just hidden messages from Moriarty using his name. They were all the messages from the past two weeks he had sent him. He exited out to the main screen and handed his brother back his phone, his hand dropping before he looked to his side in wonder and curiosity.

"Will that be all, Sherlock? Are you done accusing me of the murder?"

Sherlock was silent for several moments, partial relief filling him as well as the knowledge that the real murderer was indeed Moriarty, and his brother had no part in it. He nodded and then exhaled.

"Good. Now that all that is settled, are you planning on leaving on your own accord or do I need you personally removed from my sight, dear brother mine?" Mycroft asked, disgust and ice in his voice.

He shook his head and then turned around before he walked out of the building and back onto the street. Sherlock thought he had been right about his brother's involvement but as he looked back at the message Moriarty had sent him, he felt foolish. Of course it was Moriarty; these murders were entirely his doing. Why did it surprise him in the first place that it was his arch nemesis who had done all of it by himself?

Maybe he really was slipping, as Donovan had suggested yesterday. It was an amateur move suggesting Mycroft had been the brains behind this. His brother was intelligent but he wouldn't risk ruining his reputation to just give Sherlock puzzles to figure out by murdering innocent people. He walked back to 221B and noticed John still wasn't back. Where had he gone? Did he even say?

He felt alone with himself and when he looked back at the mystery anagram; it just gave him a headache now. There was a part of him that wanted to be alone to work on the case but there was another part who needed to bounce ideas off of John.

Sherlock opened his phone and texted him:

_When will you be back? – SH_

He waited for several minutes, expecting a quick reply but felt utterly disappointed when he received none. Sherlock paced back and forth, unable to stop himself from thinking back to the letters.

**SWJH**

**SHJW**

**Sherlock Holmes John Watson**

So Moriarty meant to get their attention, both of them. The initials had been the obvious bit. It seemed too obvious though. It was too easy. There had to be a catch.

Sherlock looked back at his phone and tried texting his friend once more:

_I need you. Here. Now. – SH_

Minutes passed and turned into an hour. He continued to pace, his thoughts stopping him from feeling exhaustion from not sleeping all night yet. He glanced over at the clock and noticed it was nearly two in the afternoon now. His need for John turned from desperation to worry. He was about to text him a third time when he saw John walk into the flat.

"Why didn't you answer my texts?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

John shrugged half-heartedly. "I was on my way back. I didn't see any point."

"Oh yes, that is indeed smart, John! Just go off walking around London while Moriarty's on a kidnap and murder rampage! Why, I do believe you're even smarter than I!" Sherlock mocked him in his frustration.

John looked at him now with contempt. "I tried to tell you earlier I was going out but you were off in your… bloody Mind Palace! You were too busy for me! I shouldn't be surprised though. You always are when we're working on a case! You're somewhere else trying to put everything together. You have no time to actually listen to me when I say anything that doesn't involve the damn case!"

Sherlock would've been hurt by John's accusation if it wasn't true and if he wasn't already feeling his own brand of anger. "You could've still texted me back, John!" he shot back at him. "As my partner in this investigation, I would've thought you would jump at the chance to help me! I need you to bounce ideas off of because God knows I can't do it by myself like I used to!"

John chuckled in disbelief. "Jump at the chance to help you? Do you think I enjoy these cases? I obviously don't enjoy them as much as you do, Sherlock! You're the one who gets off on these things! I may get off on the danger but you get off from the whole thing, from the dead bodies to the chase! They're not even cases to you; they're games for you to play! And in case you've already forgotten, I'm not just your partner in this investigation! I'm your partner that loves you!" John yelled at him.

Sherlock swallowed hard and exhaled through his nose before he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked at John finally. "I didn't forget that, John. I couldn't ever forget that. I just feel like you should stay around here until the case is over. Going out there alone is suicide with Moriarty running around."

John smiled without humor and shook his head. "I hate to break it to you, Sherlock, but it's not any better in here. We had something really good last night and you killed the moment when you went to that stupid piece of paper! You don't get it, do you? You have to ruin everything just for the sake of ruining it…"

He furrowed his eyebrows now. "I… I don't understand, John. What did I do?"

"Exactly… you didn't even realize you did anything wrong because you're so used to solving these puzzles, time and time again, that when you actually do have a functional and dare I even say it, successful and loving relationship with someone else, it's too good. It's too perfect so you must feel the need to destroy it. I mean, that has to be it, right? Why else would you break out of just… me loving you and you holding me and everything? Wasn't that moment perfect enough for you to leave it like that?" John asked him, searching Sherlock's eyes for something he could cling to.

The consulting detective was starting to put things together now but he couldn't deny how he had felt. "It was… fantastic last night, John, but… we have an important case to work on, don't we? Isn't that more important – "

John took a few threatening, angry steps towards Sherlock now, his eyes full of fire. "Say it! I dare you to say it, Sherlock! Isn't the case more important than what? Our love for each other? Our perfect moments together?! I can't see why we can't have both of these things! Tell me, Sherlock! You're the all-knowing intellectual around here… tell me why we have to pick either the case or us! Tell me why it can't be both!"

Sherlock wet his lips and searched John's face, shaking his head slowly. "Emotions get in the way of the matters at hand. If we only focused on each other instead of the case, Moriarty would just keep on killing. We would never be able to get him if we let our emotions get in the middle of the case…"

John kicked at his chair angrily and then shook his head, sighing heavily as he started pacing now. He looked back at Sherlock with tears in his eyes. "Damn it! Why are you acting this way? I thought you felt the same way about me as I did you! I know what's more important to you, though! It's… it's the bloody case! You can't let your emotions overwhelm you so you detach yourself from me so you can focus all your attention on it! You can't do that! Can't you see, Sherlock? You can't hurt people like that!"

Sherlock watched as John put his coat back on and felt his heart breaking in his chest. "John, where are you going? Y-You need to stay…"

John shook his head again, tears falling down his cheeks in two single trails. "No! I don't. I can't stay here. I can't stay here, watch you focus on the case and forget about us, while my heart is breaking inside of me, Sherlock. I'm sorry… I-I thought this could work but… I made a mistake."

Sherlock opened his mouth but he couldn't get the words out. He just shook his head determinedly. "Don't. Don't go out there, John. Don't leave me…"

John wiped his face with his sleeve. "I'll still work with you on this case, but that's all I can do. I thought I could fix you somehow but… I guess I was an idiot for thinking that. You will _always _have puzzles to solve… there will never come a time when you don't feel the need to solve them, and that's what you'll focus on every time. Not me, not us. The Game will always come first for you… I'm so sorry but I need you and realizing that I'll always come in second for you is the reason I can't stay any longer. Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock watched as the only person who loved him walked out of the flat, leaving him alone with his anagram and his broken glass heart. He felt it shattering within him and it was only when he was sure John was gone that he let his the tears that formed in his eyes finally fall down his face and drop onto the floor.

He set his jaw to stop it from quivering before he suddenly flipped the coffee table over, knocking the piece of paper over with it before he headed into the kitchen, kicking over a chair and then wiping out half the counter angrily with his arms, tea mugs landing on the floor with a crash.

He finally walked back into the living room, his mind processing why John had left and realizing that he wasn't coming back. Sherlock Holmes dropped to his knees now and let out an anguished and frustrated scream that came from a deep place within his body, a place he wasn't familiar with, but knew the pain he was feeling felt more real to him than anything else ever had felt in his entire life.


	8. Awkward Encounters

**Wow! Thank you so much for the reviews! You guys are great. And for those of you who are too shy or apathetic to review, get on that shit! You seriously have no idea what reviews do for me (it means to me what cake is to Mycroft, or solving puzzles is to Sherlock! Or what danger does for John!)**

**Okay, I'll stop now. **

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Chapter Eight: Awkward Encounters

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.o.

.o.

Sherlock knew it would've only been time when John would've gotten sick of his obsession for solving puzzles and case, putting both of these things ahead of his companion. His chest hurt unmercifully but he kept telling himself he deserved too feel this way. All his life, solving puzzles was his way of building up self-esteem and now his obsessions had kicked the one person he ever truly loved out of his life.

He finished applying his nicotine patches on his forearms before he glanced back over at the paper, letting his mind rememorize the letters once more before he lay on his back. John was gone now so he could focus on the case again. He couldn't lose him twice.

**JHSWLEPMHET AORMOIYT EMSITI NURNIOTUN**

**JHSW**** LEPMHET **

**HELP THEM**

Well that seemed obvious enough; help the people he kidnapped, of course.

**AORMOIYT **

**MORIARTY**

Maybe, but Sherlock already knew it was him. He had sent him the text so what would be the point in throwing his own name in there? He decided to skip over that for now.

**EMSITI **

He rearranged the letters in his head, shaking his head when the letters didn't make sense until he made sense of it finally.

**TIME IS **

The anagram seemed a lot easier when he separated each set of letters, Sherlock observed. He let the nicotine course through his bloodstream, finding it a lot easier to focus without any distractions.

**NURNIOTUN**

**TURN ON/IN**

**RUN IN**

**RUNNIN OUT**

Sherlock mentally added an apostrophe over the last 'n.' Slang. Did it mean anything for Moriarty not to add the G? Maybe it was just him being lazy or his blood loss might contribute to the lack of the 'G.'

Well, he got most of the message. The only thing he couldn't get was the second group of letters. He sighed and then felt his phone vibrate and chime simultaneously. He took it out to read the message.

_Another murder. 98 Lollard Street. – DI Lestrade_

Sherlock stood up quickly and took in the trashed apartment. It would have to wait until later when he had time to clean everything up. He hurried down the stairs and hailed a cab to the address Lestrade had mentioned in the text. When he arrived there, Lestrade was waiting and then put his arms out in confusion, shaking his head.

"Where's John?"

Sherlock looked at him in exasperation, scoffing impatiently. "What, you didn't text him as well? Must I always do your job for you, Grayson?"

"GREG!" he corrected angrily. "Now hold up a sec, Sherlock! You two live together in the same flat. Why didn't you drag him along with you? That's your responsibility!" Detective Inspector Lestrade barked at him.

Sherlock groaned inwardly. He hadn't needed the reminder and every time he thought about their argument, he felt tears threaten to force their way through his ducts. He cleared his throat before he stole a pair of gloves from Anderson as he walked by. "We had a… falling out and he's living elsewhere. Now let's go inside, shall we?"

Lestrade was uncomfortably quiet as he nodded and waved Sherlock through into the crime scene. As Sherlock took out his phone and texted John, Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, looking at the consulting detective. "A falling out, eh? Were you two… partners? Not just… crime solving partners but – "

"Homosexual partners? That's much more likely," Sherlock replied casually. He glanced around the scene, seeing thin trails of blood from the front door into into the main bedroom, and then into a smaller bedroom before it lead back out again.

"What do your reckon?" Lestrade asked now, feeling foolish for his personal question towards Sherlock now. "It looks almost like the second murder except there's no one here. Do you think he slaughtered the parents and got rid of the evidence?"

He sighed and shook his head even though he had only distantly heard what the DI had said to him. Sherlock started following the trails of blood and looking around at photographs. "Shut up, won't you, Lestrade? And stop thinking… it's irritating."

The Detective Inspector was looking rather impatient with Sherlock but he did as he was asked.

Sherlock looked back at the photographs that sat on the desk.

_Two parents, both missing_

_One child – daughter, also missing_

Sherlock examined the blood by the child's room and then heard a familiar voice interrupt his thoughts.

"So what are we looking at, then?"

The voice made Sherlock's heart flutter and made him look up. "Everyone's missing, same familiar blood trail but I can't tell if Moriarty is getting better or if he's dying… the latter seems to be more likely. He's held up somewhere with the families. Did Lestrade tell you anything on the way in?"

"Just that you'd fill me in on everything…"

Sherlock knelt down near the thin trail of blood. "Well come on, then, John. Don't be shy. What is your take on this murder?"

John raised an eyebrow. "That… no one got murdered at all?" he tried. "Looks like he just kidnapped the lot of them."

He stood back up and sighed. "But why then? Why the families? Why not just take one or the other?"

John walked around him and scratched the back of his neck in thought. "Well, with the anagram we know he's trying to send a message. Have you figured any of that out, by the way?"

Sherlock nodded and stood back up before he tried to imagine the situation in his head. "Most of it, yes. It was our initials, so obviously he wanted to get our attention. Then the rest of it read 'Help them. Time is running out.' Couldn't figure out the other mixture of the puzzle, though."

John grabbed a piece of paper off the counter and a pen and glanced over at his friend. "What were the letters again?"

Sherlock wasted no time in answering him, having memorized the letters by now. "A-O-R-M-O-I-Y-T. I believe the 'T' and the 'I' were part of the 'time is running out' part so you can scratch out those two letters."

John wrote the letters down on the paper and pocketed it, making a mental note to try and figure it out later. He looked back at Sherlock with a guilty feeling in his stomach when he saw his friend's pale face and slender body. "Are you still eating? You look peaky." He moved towards Sherlock and put his hand on his forehead.

Sherlock gently pushed him away and sighed. "I'm just fine, John. Thanks anyway. I hope you didn't plan on moving back in any time soon, though. The flat's a complete mess." He walked into the kitchen and began to look for anything out of place or suspicious looking.

John didn't need ask why it was a mess; he knew why. He knew Sherlock. He sighed, feeling more guilt eating away him before he followed Sherlock into the kitchen and glanced around to make sure Lestrade and his forensic team were nowhere to be seen. John leaned in towards Sherlock but was half pretending to also look for clues.

"You know, Sherlock… this isn't just my fault. This was yours as well, you know."

Sherlock swallowed hard and inhaled through his nose. "Thank you, John. I am well aware of that fact. I don't need you to remind me, as if I've forgotten about you walking out on me last night."

John bit his lip and looked away from his friend, determined not to let his feelings for Sherlock get in the way of their jobs. He wanted to embrace Sherlock again and move his body back into his flat. He wanted to start over, but there was a part of him that knew this wouldn't be possible until the case was through.

"I'm not saying it to make you feel bad, Sherlock. I'm telling you just so…" he trailed off, afraid to say the words that were on the edge of his tongue.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was there to finish his sentence for him. "You were telling me so you wouldn't feel guilty about walking out and about all the things you said to me. Well, never fear, John. I'm not as unstable as you may like to think I am. I know why you did it and I think it's a good idea. We can't let our relationship come in the middle of the case. We need to focus on what's important at the moment."

John felt like Sherlock had been so close to pinpointing his rationale but then it took a hard turn and crashed. He finally couldn't stand biting his tongue anymore. "You have absolutely no idea how dense you really are, do you? You can't switch off, Sherlock, and that's the problem! I left because the case came in between our relationship, not the other way around! You're… such a robot that I can't stand it anymore! You're mechanical, not emotional. I don't even know who I saw the other evening when we were on the couch and you went right back to work…"

Sherlock tried not to look surprised by John's reaction but he had to bite his lip hard to keep tears from appearing in his eyes. John's words pained him, emotionally and physically. He gritted his teeth and swallowed hard before he suddenly turned on John. "I'm not so mechanical because there's a job to do and there are lives at stake here, John! I'm sorry that I can't give you my undivided attention but there are other things in my mind that I can't just switch off whenever you want me to! I'm afraid this isn't to work."

John searched his face. "What isn't going to work?"

"Well, many things it would seem between us but mostly in particular, you being at the crime scenes with me. I think it may just be better if you do your own investigating on your own times, alone," Sherlock replied, more icily than he had meant to sound.

John nodded once and cleared his throat. "Right… well, if that's the way you want to do it, then… that's the way it has to be I guess. Text me anything you find out and I'll do the same."

Sherlock gave John a curt nod and watched as he walked out of the flat, waving goodbye to Lestrade. He was alone again and although he should've been grateful for the silence to think, he realized that he no longer had someone to bounce ideas off of.

"LESTRADE!"

The DI nearly ran into the kitchen, his eyes full of excitement. "What? What'd you find?"

"Nothing, I merely need your presence in here so I can shoot ideas and possibilities off of you," he answered shortly. He saw Greg roll his eyes but ignored it. "Did you find any other evidence in here besides Moriarty's blood? Any murder weapons?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Please, we couldn't be so lucky. Not a lick of evidence, besides the blood. What did you find out from the anagram, anything?"

Sherlock rubbed his temples, despising having to repeat himself. "My and John's initials, and then 'HELP THEM. TIME IS RUNNIN OUT.' I couldn't… figure out another word so I gave it to John to figure out. At first I thought it just read 'Moriarty" but that would've been too easy since we already know it's him. We really have nothing else to go on now. All we know is that he's stealing couples with daughters on this street and Gibson. Damn it! This is so frustrating!"

Lestrade coughed politely and then shrugged. "Now you know how we feel. Sherlock, is there something up with you and John? Did you two have a spat or something?"

Sherlock turned around and looked at him. "Not that it's any of your business, Lestrade, but yes, as a matter of fact, we are fighting. Are you happy now?"

"Of course not, Sherlock! Honestly, I'm surprised that you're actually in a relationship…"

"Well, I don't imagine it'll last much longer. There's nothing else here for me to look at so if you'll excuse me, I'm just going to spend my time doing something more useful than standing around and waiting for Moriarty to strike again," Sherlock moved past him, not waiting for a response as he walked out to hail a cab.

He climbed inside and felt an agonizing numbness take him over. He could still feel the nicotine from the patches racing through him but now it was just making him antsy instead of relaxed. Sherlock glanced down at his phone and started texting John.

_Mystery word could be where Moriarty plans to strike next. – SH_

It was possible that John might've not thought about this idea and if he hadn't, then it was motivation for him to figure out the word that much faster. Sherlock debated talking to Mycroft but he instantly scratched out that idea. He had already angered him by accusing him of being a murderer, more specifically, the murder Sherlock and John were trying to find in connection with the killings. He doubted that his brother would be up for helping him after that.

Once he paid the driver and got out at Baker Street, he hurried up the stairs and then hung up his coat. He threw out the nicotine patches and started to clean up the mess he had made the previous night in his frustration of John leaving. It cause him too much anxiety to leave it. He was a quarter of the way through when he realized that he craved someone to talk to, or rather someone to talk to him. He tongued his cheek in thought and then half smirked when he texted Mary Morstan.

_Urgent business. Please come to Baker Street at your earliest convenience. - SH_

Granted, it had been desperate, but he knew that she would come and it wasn't necessarily like Sherlock had anyone else he could talk to, with, or at. He picked up the coffee table and had rearranged everything on it when he heard a knock at the door. He walked over and opened it, looking at his expected visitor.

"What's so important, then?"

"You make excellent time, Ms. Morstan. I need your assistance with something. Please… come inside," Sherlock greeted, stepping out of the way so she could walk inside.

"I'd say it looks like a struggle, if I didn't know any better," Mary drawled, almost mockingly. "Did you have a fight with your demons, Sherlock? Looks like they won."

Sherlock chuckled and then walked towards her. "Don't do what I do. Trust me, you're not as good as it. Would you like some tea while you help me?"

Mary's eyes widened in shock and she partly smiled in amusement. "Oh? I'm helping you now, am I? I don't recall ever agreeing to that, Mr. Holmes."

He walked into the kitchen and started the kettle. "Somehow, I think you're just as lonely as I. John obviously hasn't paid you a visit since your one night stand and those can only go so far. And before you even ask, I saw him for a few brief moments earlier today and he didn't smell of your perfume nor shower wash so I can only assume he's found a nice inn to stay at temporarily. Does it hurt you, that he chose an inn over your own humble home?"

Mary smirked and moved towards the kitchen before she leaned against the doorway. "Not at all. He's a taken man. I was there when he told me you two were a pair. There are plenty of men in London, Sherlock Holmes. John is great but I know he's unavailable, and the last thing I wish to be is a home wrecker. You said he was staying somewhere else. Are you two in the middle of rough waters, then?"

Sherlock was surprised he wasn't regretting sending her in. It felt startling nice to actually be able to talk to someone when John wasn't there with him. It had been a desperate act but even going back and forth with this woman, this near stranger, was better than sitting in absolute silence by himself. "We're going through a rough patch at the moment. Things will smooth over once this case is solved."

"Do you really believe that, Mr. Holmes? He's told me about you…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and his smirk faltered. "What exactly do you think you know about me?" He poured the hot water into the two unbroken cups he had found in the cupboard and handed one to her.

She took it and looked at him with wonder in her eyes. "I know that you live for solving puzzles and you make your own when you get bored. Do you really think that once this case is over, you and John will just live happily ever after? Sure, you two will be able to focus on each other for a while but we live in a dangerous city, and crimes do happen, as you know. When you get another case, it'll just be second verse, same as the first."

Sherlock sipped his tea uneasily, disliking her matter-of-fact tone that he was so prone to using. He felt the tea burn his throat but he didn't flinch. "I'm not one to make the same mistake twice. I'll make it work between John and I, even if it kills me. I need to make it work with him."

Mary sipped her own tea, quiet now. She occasionally looked back up at Sherlock but her eyes were no longer full of malice. He even saw something that might have resembled respect. "So what did happen around here, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed inwardly and leaned against the counter that broken tea cups still rested upon. "A minor upset, is all. I overreacted a bit."

Mary chuckled and nodded. "A bit? I'd say you overreacted a lot."

"Now, now… let's not go _that_ far, Mary. I admit I might've been to rash with my initial reactions but I really would appreciate some help in cleaning it up," Sherlock admitted, looking at her.

"Cleaning it up for John, when he comes back?"

It was now when Sherlock had begun to doubt everything. A foreign sadness had replaced the numbness he felt. Would John even come back at all or would he find another flat? What if Mary was right? What Sherlock continued to ignore John and act mechanically when their next case came up? Was John even going to give him another chance at all?

"He _will_ be coming back, you know," Mary added now, sympathy in her voice. She must have felt his unsure silence and seen Sherlock's face filled with uncertainty, another thing that was foreign to him. "I know he loves you, and… I believe if he truly loves you, he'll be with you no matter what you two go through."

Sherlock was taken aback by her sudden assurance. He took another sip of his tea and tried to figure her out again; it was as if Mary Morstan had disappeared and a doppelganger had replaced her.

_Sincere_

_Tired_

_Lonely_

He relaxed slightly, seeing that her intentions were pure and genuine. "Thank you, Mary. That's very… kind of you to say. I must ask, though… why the sudden change of heart towards me? You're not feeling pity towards me, are you?"

She smirked playfully as she drank her tea. "Pity? No, Sherlock. I suppose it could be… empathy, maybe even a tad bit of jealousy? I envy what you have with John. He's a brilliant man and he's smart, in his own way. I'm not exactly one for having solid relationships either so perhaps it's because I can relate to you on some level. I'd like for us to be friends."

Sherlock finished his tea and nodded. "I'm not usually one for friends but I'd rather have you as a friend than an enemy. Can we at least agree to that with both of us?"

She nodded, smiling. "Yes, I believe we can. Now then," she spoke again a few moments later, finishing her tea as well. "Let us clean up this place. This isn't a good thinking space for you at all!"

Sherlock and Mary both worked to clean the flat, sweeping up the broken pieces and putting it in the garbage before flipping the furniture back to where it was supposed to be. They worked in near silence but once in a while, they would teasingly take jibes at each other to ease the awkwardness the two of them both felt. In fact, Sherlock had mentally decided that if he wasn't the kind of person he was, he might consider a relationship with this woman.

But no, he was the person he was, and he couldn't change that. John Watson was still living in his heart and that wasn't likely to change any time soon.


	9. The Missing Piece

**So there's only probably going to be about two more chapters left after this one! Things are winding down to a close so get your reviews in while you still can!**

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Chapter Nine: The Missing Piece

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.o.

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Once they were finished with the task of cleaning up Sherlock's temper tantrum mess, Sherlock looked around in satisfaction. If possible, it looked neater than it had been before he had his mental breakdown. Papers seemed to be in a more organized filing system and pillows were no longer strewn in random places in the flat.

"Who knew we could get along so well?" Mary asked, smiling contently at the consulting detective.

He nodded in agreement. "Indeed. I appreciate your assistance in cleaning up after my mess. It still doesn't bring John back, though. He's probably staying at the hospital, sleeping in his office."

She looked at him with surprised eyes. "Do you believe that he's broken up about this split more than you that he's taking to bedding down at his work instead of finding a temporary flat to live in?"

Sherlock sighed and turned to face her. "Normal people would've taken clothes, sentimental belongings and the like before they leave a relationship but he only took himself. He didn't take the time to pack anything, which tells me that he most likely has a few changes of clothes at work at the hospital, and he plans on coming back eventually. Something tells me he's still his anger stage with me but that'll pass soon enough."

She smiled at him the way someone would smile at a child to humor them. "Well, thank God you're so brilliant. At least you have that thought to keep you warm at night?"

He cocked his head slightly to the side and looked at her curiously. "Do you believe he's not coming back? He needs his clothes. Of course he's coming back…"

"Clothes? Oh, those things anyone can buy in a store?" she retorted, looking up at him.

Sherlock had gotten used to her patronizing tone that it no longer seemed mocking to him, but annoyed him nonetheless. "I doubt he can find his military paraphernalia at a clothing store," he replied knowingly. "Some things you just can't replace."

"You'd know a lot about sentimental belongings, wouldn't you, Sherlock?" she asked rhetorically before she added, "Has it crossed that brilliant mind of yours that perhaps he wants to forget about his time in the military? I don't know about you but seeing all that blood and watching your friends die around you would be something I'd want to forget."

This thought hadn't crossed his mind and he lingered upon it. If she was right and John had no intentions of retrieving his military things, his memories of a past war, then there was a chance he wouldn't come back. Then again, another thought crossed his mind. "John wouldn't have kept his military paraphernalia this long if it didn't mean something to him. He'd come back for it, at least."

Mary gave a small shrug as if to say, 'well we'll just see, I suppose,' and then started to slip her coat on. He felt an uncomfortable lump forming in his throat at what this gesture meant. "You're leaving, then? So soon?"

She gave him a small, sympathetic smile and placed a small hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I've been here for at least three hours helping you clean. Anyway, you're going to be okay. You're stronger than you think you are, and like you said, John will come back. I'm sure you've stolen my number from John's phone already so you can always pop me a message if you need me."

He straightened up and nodded once, trying not to let her see how his loneliness consumed him. "Right, then. I suppose I'll see you around, then, Mary."

"Goodbye, Sherlock…" she kissed his cheek without actually touching his face with her lips and then left the flat, leaving him alone once again.

He paced for a bit, unsure what to do with himself at the moment. He knew he should try and figure out the last word Moriarty had left but he couldn't focus on anything except for John. He longed for his company, at the very least. He wasn't an idiot; Sherlock knew that John Watson kept his feet on solid ground when he wasn't able to.

Another part of him even thought about visiting Mycroft again but he instantly struck that idea out. Their last unpleasant and accusatory visit hadn't gone very smoothly for either of them, and if Mycroft wanted his presence, then he'd request it first. Sherlock went for Plan A, although hesitantly.

He took out his phone and then found John's name. He took a moment before he started his message:

_Mrs. Hudson hasn't come home in nearly four days. I suspect there's been foul play. – SH_

Sherlock knew that this would bring John here for sure. If there was one thing his friend couldn't ignore, it was an older woman in distress. As if to prove his point, there was a rapid fire knock on the door about fifteen minutes later.

He opened it and saw John force his way inside, looking around. "Right, so when was the last time you saw her, Sherlock? Who the bloody hell would want to kidnap a little old lady?"

"John…" he spoke, but he was blatantly ignored.

John Watson started to pace but Sherlock could see the adrenaline pumping through him. "I mean, honestly! It's Mrs. Hudson we're talking about here… wait! Didn't she say her ex-husband was in a cartel? We could go off from that, maybe…"

"John!" Sherlock tried again, trying to get his attention.

The doctor was too into his own thoughts and reasoning to hear Sherlock though. He was still walking back and forth across the living room. "Do you think she tried to get back in contact with the bloke and it backfired on her? Maybe someone took her on the way to meet up with him!"

It was at this point when Sherlock raised his voice. "Oh stop it, John! Nothing happened to Mrs. Hudson!"

John stopped and looked at him in surprise. "But you… you told me she hasn't been home and that you suspected foul play…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's ignorance. "I lied! Obviously…"

John scoffed and then looked back at the door. "But then… where is she? She's not downstairs…"

Sherlock past John into the kitchen and started the kettle. "She's at her bridge club. She doesn't come back home until around ten o' clock in the evening. Tea?"

John's facial expression went from surprise to anger now, following Sherlock. "You _lied _to me just to get me over here? What am I saying, Sherlock? Of course you would lie to me!"

Sherlock sighed, almost regretting his decision. _Almost. _He poured the boiling water over the teabags into both cups. "Can we please skip over this part where you're outraged at my sociopathic behaviors and go straight to the part where you forgive me and we pick up where we left off?"

John shook his head in disbelief but then took the cup Sherlock was now holding out to him. He was quiet for a awhile, sipping his tea to try and calm him. "If you wanted to pick up where we left off, I'd still be yelling at you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed and lead them back into the living room where he sat down in front of John's armchair, followed by John carefully sitting down in his familiar chair. "Would you have come back if I hadn't messaged and lied to you?" he asked curiously. "Mary says you would've come back on your own. I said otherwise."

John leaned forward now and looked at him with wide eyes. "Wait, hold on a minute. You talked to Mary? When?"

"Well, she arrived here about three and a half hours ago today," Sherlock answered, taking a sip of his tea. "She helped me clean up after my… breakdown," he added quietly.

John smiled, shaking his head again in disbelief, stunned. "I can't believe this. You two are conspiring against me now?" he questioned, his smile fading.

Sherlock glanced up at him in surprise and shook his head. "No, John. That's not accurate at all. We're not… 'conspiring' against you, as you so elegantly put it."

John took a long drink from his tea, mentally wishing it was a stronger liquid. "How did you get here then? I know she would never come here willing. Did you lie to her as well?"

Although these questions should've annoyed him, Sherlock couldn't help but just feel grateful that John was speaking to him directly, even if they weren't having the most pleasant of conversations. "I told her there was urgent business. In my defense, it wasn't a complete lie, John."

"Of course, because nothing is ever your fault, is it? It's always mine! I can't believe this. I can't believe she actually came here…" John set his cup down and looked at Sherlock. "So why did you want me here, then? I was in the middle of my clinic duty."

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought and then turned his head to the side. "Ah, no… that's not true. You had just finished your clinic duty twenty minutes previously to receiving my text and you were eating a minimal sized dinner consisting of coffee and vending machine confections."

"And how could you possibly know that?" John asked in exasperation, although there was also a hint of admiration in his eyes.

Sherlock wasted no time in his explanation, confidence in his voice. "That's all too easy; The dried coffee stain upon your sleeve tells me you spilled a bit and tried to only clean it with cold water, causing the stain, and the white powder on your shirt tells me it was most likely a donut and the only powdery confectionary food that is found in hospital vending machines for families who stay late are usually sugary, white powder donuts. It really wasn't that difficult to figure out."

John nodded, feeling like he had made the deducting for Sherlock all too easy. He had pretty much set him up for it. He rapped his fingers on the armchair. "Alright, okay… you're right. Is that what you want to hear?"

Sherlock kept a still expression. "I know I'm right. I don't need you or anyone else to tell me it. I asked you here because… because I miss your presence. It's very quiet here without you constantly complaining about me, John. Why are you living under your desk at work? It would be so much more comfortable for you if you came back here and slept in your own bed."

"Are you forgetting why I left here in the first place? What we had together was… so bloody good but you had to spoil it, Sherlock! You're obsessed with this case and obsessed about getting Moriarty and I was a fool for thinking that you could focus on us as well as the case at hand!"

Sherlock felt his stomach twist into knots, despising his emotions but still making an attempt to not let them get the better of him. "This case is essential and it'd be idiotic to only focus on our relationship instead of the case. Don't you think that helping to catch a serial kidnapper and murderer is more important than… frolicking and talking about menial things that don't relate to this case?"

He saw John's face redden with anger and nearly jumped when he heard his voice again. "'Frolicking? Is that what you've categorized our relationship as? Not even love or compassion for each other? I realize you find emotions difficult, even beyond your mental capacity, but for one minute can you please try and not act like a bloody machine?!"

Sherlock took a sip of his tea again and then cleared his throat, becoming uncomfortable. The two of them sat in a silence for several minutes before the detective spoke up again, this time, his voice reluctant and foreign to his own ears. "I do… l-love and care for you very much, John. You know this, and you should know that even when we're working on a case, there are only warm thoughts for you in my heart. Even if I don't speak them aloud to you, it doesn't mean that I'm only focusing on the case at hand. I don't delete every seemingly menial thought about you in my mind. I only delete the things that are unimportant to me."

John thought for a long time, his anger subsiding and being replaced with awe. "So… you're saying that you still think about me, and us as a couple, even when you're thinking about a case. You don't… delete the things you normally would and only focus on the facts…"

Sherlock nodded slowly and then confessed, "Because it's a fact that I love you more than I've ever loved another person is the reason why I don't delete it. I know in my heart that it's not truly menial and because it means something to you, it belongs there, even if I must push it towards the back of my mind for the moment."

John mulled this over in his own mind and relaxed in his seat, smiling a soft smile. "Wow, that… that honestly has to be the… sweetest, kindest thing you've ever said to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a low laugh, smiling a bright and sincere smile. "Well, I mean it, John… I mean it with all of my broken heart…"

John looked at him with almost sad eyes. "Why do you have a broken heart?"

Sherlock was still smiling just to avoid actually letting himself feel the same sadness. "Because you weren't here! You left me, don't you remember?"

John sunk down into his armchair and then wet his lips in thought. "Well, I believe I'm coming back now, Sherlock. I think we're better together than alone… and at least this way, we can keep each other safe."

He looked at John now with skeptical eyes. "Is that the only reasoning you're going to use then?"

John shrugged but was smirking slightly. "Well, there's the fact that I don't want to be alone any more than you want to be alone. I must admit, I missed you greatly, Sherlock. I missed your arrogance and your deducting, and even your talking for days on end. Besides, someone's got to keep tabs on you and make sure you eat."

Sherlock chuckled and nodded in acknowledgement. "Okay, then… what do you say we celebrate our reunion with some fish and chips from next door?"

John grinned now and nodded. "That's probably the best idea you've ever had, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock chuckled and stood up before he grabbed his coat. "It appears I'm on a roll today…"

John laughed along with him and finished his tea before he stood up as well and walked over to him, gently patting him on the shoulder. "Let's keep it up, yeah?"

"Of course…" Sherlock opened the door for him, letting John pass through it before he followed him, closing it and heading out of the flat.

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

**.o.**

They were in the middle of eating their fish and chips in Speedy's when the men heard the chime of a message coming from Sherlock's phone. The detective set one of his chips down in the basket before he rubbed his greasy hands on a napkin and pulled out his phone.

When John saw the anxiety written on Sherlock's face, he set his own food down and looked worriedly at him. "What is it? What's happened?"

Sherlock swallowed hard before he let his eyes take in the letters written on his phone.

_Mary, Mary, quite contrary… interesting she has your number on her phone, Sherlock Holmes. Have you figured out my puzzle yet? If not, it looks like she won't be around for too much longer… - M_

John stood up quickly now and put his coat on. Sherlock pocketed his phone and looked at him in alarm. "Where are you going? We haven't figured out what the last piece of it was!"

John motioned for him to follow his lead. He waited for Sherlock to put his own coat on and he lead him out of the café and quickly raised an arm out for the cab. The detective was dumbfounded and confused as he piled into the cab, looking at John expectantly.

The doctor leaned towards the driver. "The Armoury House, step on it…"

Something clicked now in Sherlock's mind.

**AORMOIYT**

**ARMORY ****IT**

**ARMOURY **

The 'I' and 'T' had been placed there to throw them off, as well as the neglected 'U,' but that had been found in other parts of the anagram. He looked over at John who had panic on his face as the cab raced towards the HAC Armoury House.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive, Sherlock. Trust me… please. It's this place. He must have kidnapped her to get to mean. It makes sense!"

The cab suddenly jerked forward unexpectedly and loud shouting could be heard from the driver. Both men leaned forward and saw that a car had pulled out in front of the cab and was now blocking their path. John jumped out of the cab and ran towards the man in the car who appeared unconscious. Sherlock followed him quickly, afraid of losing him in the heavy traffic that was building up.

He arrived at John's side, out of breath now, and watched as the doctor placed two fingers on the driver's wrist before he leaned in.

"He's dead…" John replied in a soft voice, looking up at his friend.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and looked around at the signs before he grabbed John's arm and tugged him. "I know where we are… come on, John! We can run on foot!"

John struggled a bit but let Sherlock lead them towards the Armoury. Sherlock stopped occasionally to collect their bearings but then in a flash, he was off again. "Sherlock! This is mad! We can't run all the way there! It's too far!" he panted.

Sherlock glanced back at the tired man and then closed his eyes, mentally figuring out exactly where the nearest subway was. He created a map of the London Underground in his mind and then followed it up towards where they were. His eyes shot open again and then he grabbed John's hand and started running quickly towards the nearest subway tunnel. They ran through it and eagerly jumped onto the tube moments before the doors closed and shut them inside.

John looked at him, fear in his eyes. "W-What if Moriarty hurts her?"

Sherlock shook his head surely. "He won't. That's not what he wants. He just wants the two of us there. He messaged me, which means he's tired of playing the game and wants it to end. Moriarty's grown tired of waiting. Why didn't you tell me you managed to figure out the last word?"

John saw the hurt in Sherlock's eyes and felt his heart sink. "I honestly meant to tell you, Sherlock. With everything that's been happening between us and the recent kidnappings, it didn't seem like a good time. Anyway, I assumed you'd have figured out the word already and just neglected to tell me."

Sherlock sighed softly and felt impatient as the subway jetted along the track swiftly, causing the tunnel to become a blur. "Good job, John, of figuring it out. I suppose I couldn't stop thinking of you and the fight and… I wasn't really able to focus properly on the anagram."

John looked at him, holding onto the metal bar. "Are you blaming me for this?"

"No, don't be ridiculous. Of course I'm not. I'm just making an observation. Anyway, it's a good thing that one of us was able to figure it out. We wouldn't know where he was keeping them otherwise. Do you have your gun on you, John?" He asked suddenly, glancing over at him.

John rolled his eyes and groaned. "Yes, because as a doctor at a day clinic, I never know when I'm going to need to use my firearm! Of course I haven't brought my bloody gun, Sherlock!" he hissed, trying not to make a scene.

"Now, now… calm down, John. I'm sure we'll be okay. We'll figure something out…"

John clenched his jaw. "What if we get there and Moriarty decides to just kill us both, once and for all? Neither of us have anything to protect ourselves with. What's to stop him from just… ending us?"

Sherlock grabbed hold of a swinging bar above him as the tube started to slow down with a loud screeching sound. "Moriarty isn't one for killing intelligent people. You may be a doctor but you're a genius by proxy, by being with me. The other murders he committed recently were accidents. He meant to kidnap them as well but things didn't go according to plan. He didn't know what he had been doing with the poison. He didn't think it had been enough to actually kill them. Moriarty had only planned to incapacitate them," he concluded.

John thought about this and looked at Sherlock in amazement but fear was still plain on his face. He took a deep breath and once they had gotten off the subway and out of the tunnel, Sherlock lead him hurriedly down the street a ways just before stopping suddenly.

"What are you doing? Why did you stop?"

Sherlock turned and faced the large building. "Because we're here, John."


	10. Final Battle

**So only one more chapter to go after this one! I really hope you've enjoyed reading it.**

* * *

Chapter Ten: Final Battle

.o.

.o.

.o.

John swallowed hard as him and Sherlock both hurried into the Armoury House, determined to find Moriarty and those people he kidnapped. He saw the anger in his companion's face, his jaw set; he wanted answers, they both did.

Sherlock took out the small flashback he kept in his pocket and used it to help light their way. As they looked frantically for the serial kidnapper, they suddenly heard a voice echo off the walls.

"Y-You've made it! Finally! We were beginning to doubt the great Sherlock would never make it…"

Sherlock felt his blood turn to ice. He recognized that accent instantly. He mentally observed how the slight tremble at the start of Moriarty's sentence. It sounded weak. He looked around but couldn't see anyone. "Where are they? What did you do with the people you kidnapped, Moriarty?"

John could feel his heart racing in his chest, and then got an idea. He took out his phone and texted Sherlock while they both listened to Moriarty's ragged breathing.

_Going to look for them. Stall him as long as you can. I'll be back - John_

He started to back away now and it wasn't until he was on the other side of the Armoury building that he finally sent the message to Sherlock, making an attempt not to be conspicuous. Sherlock heard the _ding_ of the message but didn't reach for it right away.

"What did you do with them?!" Sherlock demanded angrily.

Moriarty's small chuckle reverberated off the walls. "Don't worry, Sherlock. They're safe and sound… if I were you, I'd be more worried about your partner though."

Sherlock finally took his phone out and looked at the message from his friend. He took a deep breath and looked in the direction where he suspected Moriarty was hiding in the dark before he wrote a simple message for John:

_Stay on your guard. Be careful. – SH_

"I wouldn't be too sure of that! From the looks of the crime scenes you left, it looks like you're the one in need of assistance," Sherlock tried to distract him. "Come out now and perhaps we can get you to hospital!"

Moriarty finally stepped out of the shadows, or rather, limped out. From the dim lighting in the long hallway, Sherlock could see a rather large gash in his leg and his face was as white as a sheet. His stomach dropped at the sight. "No need for an ambulance, Sherlock. I doubt if it could even get here in time anyway… 'tis but a scratch! I can't tell you what trouble it was just to get all of them here…"

He eyed his arch nemesis carefully, hoping that John had found them. "Why kidnap them? What did they do to you? They're innocent people…"

Moriarty smirked and clicked his tongue. "There is no such thing as innocent people, Sherlock! No one is innocent… not truly. Not in a world of adulterers! Honestly, those people must be the most evil of them all… constantly lying to their children and their significant others until their lies finally catch up with them. I must admit, however, Sherlock… it really must be nice to have two parents! Those girls are lucky. My parents… well, I suppose you could say we never had the most stable family unit."

Sherlock took a step forward, trying to put everything together. "So what is this then? Why kidnap them if you admire them so much? What are you trying to prove exactly?"

Moriarty winced in pain as he dragged his leg forward, putting most of his weight on the opposite leg as he looked at Sherlock with a maddening twinkle in his eye. "So many questions… so little time! It must be agonizing, Sherlock, to not have the answers you so desperately crave!"

"If my calculations are correct, one of them, most likely one of the wives stabbed you with a kitchen knife. That was at least two days ago. It either wasn't very deep or you're just very lucky. However," Sherlock continued, "from the paleness of your face, I believe your luck is running out. That message you left, the anagram… 'Time Is Running Out.' That was for you, not for the families. You never planned on killing them once you kidnapped them. You wanted help for yourself."

Moriarty laughed sickeningly as he slow clapped his hands, grinning from ear to ear. "Bravo, Sherlock Holmes! Not like that part was very difficult to figure out once you saw the trail of my blood though! Everyone in London thinks you're so brilliant when really it's just all of them who are completely oblivious and ignorant… amazing. Anyway, I know there's no way I'm going to make it… I just wanted to get a final message across to you…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And what message would that be, Moriarty? Certainly it's not that you're a kindhearted person. You've got blood on your hands… accidental blood, even."

Moriarty let out a loud groan in pain as he grabbed at his injured leg and let out a hiss. He let himself fall against the stone wall, looking up at Sherlock. "That I wanted what they had, that I could never have!" he yelled in frustration. "I wanted a family! A real mum and dad! These people were idiotic, ignorant to the fact of how lucky they actually were to have each other! It's silly but… sometimes I wonder if I would still be the same person I am today if only I had had real parents when I was younger…"

Sherlock saw something he never thought he'd see in Moriarty's eyes: tears. Tears of regret and despair. He swallowed hard, his chest suddenly feeling tight and his limbs heavy. He moved closer to the young man but also kept his distance at the same time. "You're blaming your psychopathic tendencies on your parents? How very cliché of you… Truly, it's not how they raised you that made you who you are, Jim Moriarty. It's how every single time, you validated your own actions with the assumption that what you were doing wasn't as bad as what other murderers have done. You justified your own actions of kidnapping and murdering couples and children because you blamed your parents for how you are today."

Moriarty shook his head and sunk down against the wall in defeat, the tears now falling freely down his face. "No… no, I-I didn't! No… it wasn't my fault, Sherlock!"

The detective looked unsurely at Moriarty, wanting to feel disgusted with him but at the same time, he knew this man's life was ending. He swallowed hard, wishing John was here with him right now. John would know what to say, how to react. "Somehow, I don't believe these people will forgive you for killing their children or parents… as they shouldn't. You can't ever justify the things you've done, Moriarty. They weren't right, as much as you'd like to believe they were. My God, you must have been so desperate to ask for my help," Sherlock spoke in disbelief, shaking his head.

"I-I was… I was so desperate, Sherlock…" Moriarty cried. "Please… I just need you to forgive me."

Sherlock looked at him now, making mental observations in his head from everything from Moriarty's body language to the inflections in his voice:

_**Liar**_

_**LIAR**_

_**Liar**_

_**Fake**_

_**Actor**_

_**LIAR**_

Sherlock stood up now and took a few steps back. "You almost had me going there… almost. You should've stayed in the acting business."

Moriarty's crying turned into laughter and he looked at Sherlock, wiping the tears away with his sleeve. He shrugged and smirked. "What can I say, Sherlock? I've had many years of practice. Oh… so many years. Molly Hooper was an easy hook, line and sinker, of course. She was so gullible… and the first couple. Granted, they were accidents but I never admitted to being a decent cook. I overcompensated there."

Sherlock looked down at him in revulsion now. "You're pathetic. All this time I've had you pegged as some kind of… genius serial killer and all you are is a failed actor. It doesn't even matter though! None of this matters because you've still lost a lot of blood and you're way past saving! So why keep the charade up even after you were stabbed? Why was any of this worth it?!"

Moriarty was quiet for a while before there were two sets of footsteps coming from behind Sherlock. "It brought you and John here, didn't it? None of this was for naught, Sherlock! I promise," he grinned. "I just thought it'd be nice to show you how it feels losing people you care about…"

Sherlock turned around now to see one large man holding a gun to John's neck and another man with Mary's hands tied behind her back and kneeling on the cold concrete floor. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest now and he tried to think quickly. He started towards the man holding John but then heard a gunshot and saw a bullet hit the ground directly in front of him and then Moriarty's voice.

"Ah ah ah, Sherlock! Easy now… you need to be alive for this to work…"

Sherlock turned on his heel now and started towards Moriarty, causing the villain to shrink backwards. "You hurt me and your dear friends will die! You don't want to be responsible for their deaths, do you?"

He stopped short, feeling trapped now. He let out an angry cry of frustration. "Let them go! This doesn't even involve them! It's between the two of us, Moriarty."

He shook his head and smirked. "It's between all of us, Sherlock. You don't know love… you don't know what it means to love someone! Well, then again, maybe you do! I've been watching the two of them in more ways I care to admit… and by God, it does seem like the two of you truly love each other…"

Sherlock suddenly moved towards Moriarty and punched him forcefully with an energy he hadn't known he even possessed until this moment. He barely felt the pain in his hand as he let it collide with Moriarty's cheek and jaw repeatedly.

"Sherlock, stop! Please! Stop or you're going to get us all killed…" John's voice pleaded.

Sherlock Holmes didn't stop until he suddenly heard the clicking sound of the hammer being brought back on the gun. He forced himself off of a now bloody and beaten Jim Moriarty and looked in John's direction where the gun was still held against his neck. He felt his heart stop, unable to think straight now.

"On my count!" Moriarty yelled out once he spit out blood in his mouth onto the floor.

"No… w-we can talk this out. You don't need to do this!" Sherlock shouted at him desperately.

"One!"

Sherlock paced back and forth, shaking his head. He had to do something, anything. He looked at John who looked back at him with a forgiveness in his face Sherlock couldn't begin to understand.

"It's okay, Sherlock… this wasn't your fault."

"Two!"

Sherlock shook his head, gritting his teeth just before an idea flashed in his head. "John, hit and roll!" he suddenly yelled to him.

"Three!"

It was a split second before all hell happened. As soon as Sherlock's words rang out, John knocked his head back hard, causing injury to the man who had been holding the gun. As soon as he had taken him by surprise, John grabbed the gun from him and rolled out of the way before he aimed the gun at the second man who was still holding his to Mary's head. At this moment, Sherlock drew his own gun from his pocket and fired a shot at the one who had held John at gunpoint, shooting him in the chest before he quickly turned his gun onto the second one and shot him in the neck.

Moriarty let out an amused chuckle now, clapping once again. "Oh my… now that is teamwork!"

Mary ducked and whimpered slightly but didn't appear to be grazed by the bullet. John untied her hands and stood in front of her, looking from Sherlock to Moriarty, wondering what to do next.

Sherlock sighed in relief and looked down at the serial murderer. "Your plan backfired. How does it feel knowing that you're going to die without having me felt a loss about someone I love?"

Moriarty chuckled now, shaking his head. "My plan isn't over yet, Sherlock. It doesn't have to be the loss of John Watson…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion and raised his eyebrows before he saw the silver flash of a gun come out from under Moriarty's pants. The surprise overwhelmed Sherlock's natural defensive instincts to react and he felt the pain in his shoulder before he knew what had happened. He felt himself be knocked back against the wall and a searing pain shoot through him. He groaned in pain just as he heard a second gunshot and then blacked out.

**.o.**

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he immediately closed them again as the blinding, fluorescent light of the hospital filled his vision. He groaned and slowly allowed himself to open the lids of his eyes.

"John…? Where's… where's John?" he asked, seeing the shadows of two figures in the room, standing around his bed.

"Right here," a strong voice replied, instantly taking his hand and placing it into Sherlock's. "I'm right here, mate. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock finally saw him in full and smiled weakly as he chuckled. "Just bloody great… what happened to Moriarty? Is he dead?"

John nodded and then looked grim. "Yes, of course he is. I wasn't going to let him get away with shooting you. I couldn't…"

Sherlock nodded in understanding, feeling a warmth fill him up now, making his fingers tingle slightly. He looked over and groaned again. "What the hell are _you_ doing here, Lestrade?"

The Detective Inspector walked over towards the bed, rolling his eyes. "What, did you honestly believe Scotland Yard was just going to let you get shot in complete secrecy and not find out about John killing one of the most dangerous men in London?"

He sighed and waved the older man away. "Don't you have better things to do than be at my hospital bedside? Don't you have crimes to solve or… something?"

Lestrade scratched his neck and shook his head. "The families are fine, just in case you were wondering," he growled, ignoring Sherlock's request. "They're all being kept in hospital overnight for observation and then they decide what they want to do and where they want to go. I can't believe you went in there without notifying us first! Actually, I _can _believe it because you're an absolute nutter!"

John chuckled now and it was just then when Sherlock realized someone was missing from the group. "Where's Mary?"

"Downstairs getting the coffee. She'll be back up shortly. You should get some sleep though. I can't remember the last time you actually did sleep…"

Sherlock sighed heavily, tiredly. He looked to the side and saw the morphine machine hooked up to him but also noticed he was being given a limited amount. He pressed the button several times and soon felt the pain in his shoulder become a dull ache. "Mmm… so when can I go home…?" he slurred slightly.

John looked at him disapprovingly but leaned in close, still holding his hand. "They want to keep you here for a few days but after that, they say you're free to come back home."

"Home… home is nice. Will you be there as well?" Sherlock asked him, smiling softly.

John nodded and smiled back at him, love in his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock. I'll be there too… but for now, I'm staying here with you. I promise I'm not leaving your side again."

"Oh, lovely. It's so nice to have an overbearing boyfriend," Sherlock teased. "I'm surprised Mycroft hasn't blessed me with his presence yet – "

"Did someone mention me?" a familiar voice drawled.

Sherlock sighed inwardly and shook his head in disbelief. "Mycroft… why, you're as loyal as a dog! What brings you here?"

Mycroft gave a look to John just as Mary entered the doorway. John nodded knowingly and let go out of Sherlock's hand before speaking. "We'll be back in a few minutes, give you two some time to talk." He motioned for Mary to follow him out into the hallway and it was only now when Mycroft answered his brother's question.

"What brings me here? Dear brother mine, you must be joking. It wouldn't be prudent of me not to visit you in the hospital after you were hit by a bullet. Your very loss would break my heart," he answered elegantly, being careful not to touch anything.

Sherlock looked up at him and smiled weakly. "So you keep telling me. I'm rather surprised you showed up at all after our last encounter together."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Oh, you mean when you forced yourself in and accused me of killing and kidnapping innocent families! Believe me, dear brother, I had my reservations about coming to see you but I must admit, I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I hadn't. Are you enjoying your intravenous medication then?"

Sherlock glanced over at the morphine machine and rolled his eyes. "It's adequate but it wouldn't kill them to give me a bit more. I've been shot, for God's sake. The least they could do is make sure I have a sufficient supply of painkiller to keep me from feeling the pain. Whose bloody idea was it anyway to limit my supply?"

Mycroft looked at his brother with boredom. "It was mine, Sherlock. Surely you know that I wouldn't let them enable your little morphine addiction now, don't you? You think I don't pay attention to you but I pay it in more ways than one. Anyway, the pain will recede and you'll be up and about in no time."

"Now come, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted, his eyelids becoming heavy. "I know you didn't just come to visit me out of the kindness of your pea-sized heart. State your business so I can sleep."

His brother cleared his throat and sniffed. "I simply would like to know what state James Moriarty is in at the present moment."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked at him. "Dead, actually. How is it that you had no information about the events that took place last night?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock with an amused expression. "Actually, the events you are referring to at the Armoury House took place three nights ago. You've been asleep for a while, dear brother. In any case, Lestrade insisted I talk to you about what happened instead of him telling me directly. I can see that I'm about to lose you to the Sandman soon so I'll just keep this brief. Good job, whatever you did that night. Obviously, it was the right choice and I'm very… proud of you, Sherlock."

No sooner had he said those words, Sherlock felt himself drifting off to Dreamland.


	11. Together Again

**All right, are you all ready for this? LAST CHAPTER! YAY! I'll just take this moment to thank you awesome people for following me and thank those who reviewed my chapters. You guys are amazing.**

**I'm not planning on writing a sequel to this story but keep on the lookout for a new JohnLock story from me very soon! I sincerely hope you guys follow that one as well. **

**I apologize for the super short chapter but I felt like it was a good place to leave it. As a last request for a final goodbye to this story, do you guys think you could leave me a review and just tell me your final thoughts about this story? Thanks a bunch! **

**Okay, here we go! **

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Together Again

.o.

.o.

.o.

When Sherlock woke up again, he felt John's hand in his again. He relaxed and caressed his thumb over the top of his companion's hand affectionately. He slowly opened his eyes and smiled when he saw John looking at him with warmth in his own eyes.

"Have you even gone back home since I arrived here?" Sherlock looked his friend up and down, looking for any clues that might suggest otherwise.

"You tell me. Aren't you the great detective?" John smirked playfully.

"Consulting detective, and yes, John. Of course I am. Honestly, if I wanted someone to ask me ridiculous questions, I would've asked Anderson to come here," he teased, a hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

John chuckled and shook his head. "I have missed this, Sherlock. I see you haven't lost your arrogance at all… seriously though, how are you feeling?"

Sherlock couldn't feel the morphine anymore and it was the first time that he could actually feel real pain. "It hurts, John. What else should I expect though? I've been shot with a bullet. Speaking of which, about what happened at the Armoury with Moriarty – "

John tensed up slightly and sighed before he interrupted. "I know, Sherlock. I know you wanted to end Moriarty on your own terms but… I just couldn't take what he did, shooting you like that. I should've known he was going to do something like that. I felt like I needed to do _something_…"

Sherlock waved John's statement off with his free hand. "I understand. I understand why you did it and I wasn't going to harass you about that. You're right – I did want to take him out on my own terms but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of watching me bleed out. Thank you, John… for killing him."

John gave him a curt nod, his face still unsure about his actions. He cleared his throat and continued to caress Sherlock's hand in his own, the two men silent for several minutes before he finally found the courage to speak again. "I'm… I'm really grateful you're okay, Sherlock, and… thank you for saving my life in that place…"

Sherlock could see the discomfort in John's eyes and smiled in an assuring manner. "You don't need to thank me, John. I… you mean a lot to me… and… I love you," he stammered awkwardly. "I'd do anything to protect you because you're the first person who understands how I am and why I do the things I do. You're the first person who gave me a chance to open up to you and accept me with all my… faults."

John chuckled softly and nodded in understandingly, grinning. "I love you too, Sherlock." He gave his hand a gentle squeeze before he his eyes brightened up. "Oh! I can't believe I almost forgot this but… the doctors say you can go home tomorrow morning!"

Sherlock sighed and hit the arm rest of the hospital bed in frustration. "God, that's not soon enough! I have cabin fever, John. I swear I'm going to go insane being cooped up in here…"

John looked at him with skeptical eyes. "You've just been shot, Sherlock!"

The detective tapped his fingers on the arm rest impatiently and squirmed on the bed. "Four days ago! I assure you I'm perfectly fine now but I'D BE A LOT BETTER IF I COULD GET SOME BLOODY MORPHINE IN HERE!"

John wasn't surprised at Sherlock's change in demeanor. He just sunk back into his chair and rested his chin on his hand. "You shouldn't have any more morphine, Sherlock. Mycroft told us he's the cause of your limited supply and I agree with him. I can see what I can do about getting you some regular painkillers, if you like."

Sherlock shook his head and looked out the window, trying to control himself for John's sake. "Don't bother. I don't want any aspirin. I want something stronger than household painkillers…"

John rolled his eyes but didn't let go of Sherlock's hand. "Of course you do, but you're not getting any."

Sherlock took a deep breath, chewing on his lower lip before snapping his head towards John. "Where are they? Where are my cigarettes?"

"You were shot and I don't bloody care if it was four days ago! You need to relax and let yourself heal before you ingest toxic chemicals into your body!" John scolded.

Sherlock's grip on his hand tightened slightly but then relaxed again. "Fine. But only because you're here with me. It wouldn't be this way if we weren't together…"

John chuckled slightly. "Oh I know… if it were up to you, you'd probably get your clothes back on and jump out of this window right now. Maybe it _is_ a good thing that I'm here."

Sherlock ceased being antsy and looked over at John before he gave him a small smile. "It is most definitely a good thing you're here, John. It's… considerably better than being alone and in this bed. I-I'm sorry, for my behavior. I just want to get back to Baker Street…"

John nodded and sighed again. "Yeah, I get it… you're sick of being here. I don't blame you. I just want you to be back at one hundred percent before we go… trouncing off again to solve more crimes." His eyes suddenly became glazed over with a look of fear and dread now, the cause of which did not go unnoticed by his companion.

"Maybe… we should close up shop," Sherlock suggested hesitantly, looking over at John.

Realization appeared upon the doctor's face after several moments of confusion and his eyebrows raised in surprise. "No more cases? No more… running around London solving crimes? You would do that for me? I mean, you would… honestly do that, Sherlock?"

He slowly nodded but his hands were tense in uneasiness. Of course the idea wouldn't appeal to Sherlock. Solving crimes and running around, the adrenaline pumping through him, were the only things keeping the consulting detective from turning to his addictive vices. "Yes, John. I saw what it did to us, how this previous case ripped us apart and I don't want you to leave again… so yes, I would do it for you."

John felt his heart race in his chest and he couldn't stop the grin from appearing on his face. He sat back in his chair again and looked at Sherlock in disbelief. He wanted to call this progress. He wanted to be proud of Sherlock's decision to do what would make John happy but looking at Sherlock made him feel hesitation. He bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair before he shook his head.

"I… I appreciate the gesture, Sherlock… but I can't let you do that for me."

Sherlock looked at his friend in confusion and sat up straighter, his eyebrows furrowed. "I thought… isn't that what you wanted? I thought you just wanted to focus on us, our relationship? The case got in the way…"

It was John's turn to feel frustrated now. "I know what I said but… I realize that solving these crimes could be the only thing holding you together. Doing this with you is keeping you from falling apart at the seams. I must admit that it's also helping me as well. I haven't had a proper nightmare since before this case started."

Sherlock was quiet, anxiously biting his thumbnail in thought now. He swallowed hard and looked at John again. "So… the cases are therapeutic for both of us," he deducted. "John, how are we going to do this? With the last case, you complained about how I barely talked to you and… just… hung out with you. You know how I get with cases… I need to focus on them."

John nodded, seeing the issue. He cleared his throat once again before speaking. "I suppose that we'll just have to work around that. I'll do whatever you need me to do during them. I'll make the sacrifices, for you. You don't want to mess around or do anything during the cases, then fine. That's fine, Sherlock. I'll accept it and let you focus but in between the cases, you're mine."

Sherlock's eyes glistened with love and he chuckled lightheartedly. "That sounds like a brilliant plan. Thank you, John… you can't know how much that sentiment means to me, truly."

John nodded and leaned in before he gently planted a kiss on Sherlock's hand before he squeezed his hand again affectionately. "I'm going to get some coffee but I'll be right back, okay?"

Once Sherlock nodded, it wasn't long before he felt himself nod off again. When he woke up again, he saw the sun rising in the sky and silently cursed himself for wasting his time sleeping while John was still here at the hospital, choosing to sleep in the uncomfortable visitor chair by his hospital bed. Sherlock watched the orange bleed into the pink and yellows of the sunrise, letting himself take it in, all the while feeling eternally grateful for John and the idea of a world without Jim Moriarty.

**.o.**

**.o.o.**

**.o.**

Sherlock hadn't been home for five days when he was finally able to have his first cigarette since he started the case. He let the nicotine soak into his system, decreasing his appetites and relaxing him. John looked at him with somewhat disapproving eyes as he sat in his armchair, reading his book with a cup of tea. The two men looked eyes and smiled lovingly at one another.

Neither were complaining about the lack of new cases since it meant they could spent quality time together. Mary made casual visits at least once a week that only lasted about an hour, but the three of them became close friends quickly.

Sherlock watched the rain contently from the window one day as he let his fingers dance across the violin, strumming the strings with a pleasant elegance that caused the flat to become enchanted with the sounds of his original musical talents. He closed his eyes and let out a note as he exhaled slowly through his mouth. He soon laid the instrument back on its placeholder before he turned to look at John who was laying on the couch where Sherlock usually lay.

"I've been having a lot of thought about something…" he started, smirking.

John looked over at him and smirked back playfully. "Careful about that now. We know what happens when your head gets too big…"

"O-ho! I believe you need to follow me and see what I've been thinking about though, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, taking his hand and pulling him up.

John let himself move with his friend and gave him a surprised look. "Oh yeah? Well, I think you should give me a hint…"

Sherlock grinned and laughed softly before he leaned in and pressed his lips gently against John's and lingered there for what felt like ages before he reluctantly pulled away again, and started tugging on his friend's hands again to follow him.

"Hmm… I'm still not totally convinced that I know where your thinking lies, Sherlock," he teased, smiling.

Sherlock pushed open the bedroom door and looked back at John with mischievous eyes. "It's elementary, my dear Watson!"

With these words, Sherlock pulled John inside the bedroom and then closed the door, only letting the bedroom see the rest of his deductions.


End file.
